None in this Wide World
by thetravelinglemon
Summary: In appreciation of the lovely Bofur, who deserves some happiness and a lass of his own, even if it comes at the price of a lot of angst. Slow build, using some songs. Bofur/OC, Fili/OC, Nori/Dwalin. Rated M for bawdy songs, serious injury, and mentions of prostitution.
1. Chapter 1

**As someone's who's recently come to appreciate Bofur a lot more (I think he may be my favourite dwarf now) partially due to reading fics where his love for someone is unrequited, I thought that I should write a fic in appreciation of Bofur, and give him a bit of happiness. However, prepare for angst before the happiness.**

**A lot of this fic is based around songs, since I know that Bofur has an appreciation and talent for music, and I will also make up some convenient things about dwarf culture. If neither of these are okay, then don't bother reading.**

**Anyway, I hope you enjoy, and I'm sorry for the long waffle!**

...

Bofur sat among the other members of the Company in the house belonging to the great skin changer, Beorn. Everything was so huge, and so beautifully carved; a few times Bofur had to catch himself from drifting into silence and staring around him in awe.

His companions were sitting round the table, exchanging jokes and stories, much more at ease now Beorn had left the room. However, they were clearly taking the opportunity to drink as much honeyed-mead as they could manage. As much as Bofur liked to drink, he would not drink to the point where he lost his senses, unlike some of the others.

After some time, the cry went up for some music.

"Bofur! Get your whistle out and give us a tune!" cried Fili.

Bofur did as requested, taking out his whistle and beginning to play a gentle melody with it. He smiled inwardly when Bifur took out his small harp and began to play along. Then the whistle stopped and the singing began.

"_Blue mountain river, if only for a while,__  
__Take me to the river, I lay down by your side,__  
__The world is full of madness and I find it hard to smile,__  
__I'll sleep within through winter and wait for summertime._

_Blue mountain river, comfort me a while,__  
__I'll follow down the river, follow you til night,__  
__I listen to you whispers, you dance in time to mine,__  
__We'll stay awake together watching silver in the sky._

_Blue mountain river, I want to rest a while,__  
__You're changing my reflection and the seasons in my mind,__  
__Let these days go on forever, I'll leave in my own time,__  
__Take me where you're going and I'll be right by your side._

_Blue mountain river, I went there for a while,__  
__I listened for an answer and I found it deep inside,__  
__When I'm lost behind the shadows and I want to run and hide,__  
__My blue mountain river is there right by my side."_

There was a small amount of applause, but it was clearly not what they had been looking for.

"Give us a lively song, Bofur!" called Nori.

"Aye, one more suited to rough dwarves like us." Dwalin joked.

Bofur smiled and began to play again, Bifur soon recognising the tune and playing with him.

"_I am a youth that's inclined to ramble,__  
__To some foreign country I mean to steer,__  
__I am loath to part from my friends and comrades,__  
__And my dear sweetheart, whom I loved dear.__  
__But there's one of those I do most admire,__  
__One her I'll think when I 'm far away,__  
__For since fates decreed I am resolved to part her,__  
__And try my fortune in the Iron Hills_

_.__So farewell darling I must leave you,__  
__I place great dependence on your constancy,__  
__That no other young dwarf may gain your favour,__  
__Or change your mind when I am over the way.__  
__For although the lands do separate us,__  
__And in between us they do rise and fall,__  
__If fortune favours me you'll find your laddie,__  
__Returning homeward from the Iron Hills._

_Oh darling dear do you remember,__  
__When I sat with you for manys the hour,__  
__And my young fancy away was carried,__  
__And the bees hummed around on each opening flower,__  
__But when you're crossing the eastern woodlands.__  
__The maid that loved you, you'll never mind her,__  
__And you'll scarce e'er think upon the maids of Blue Mountain,__  
__For you'll find strange sweethearts in the Iron Hills._

_Oh darling dear, I don't disemble,__  
__For to all other fair maids I'll prove untrue,__  
__And if you think that these are false promise,__  
__I'll leave these vows as a pledge to you.__  
__That what I have may prove unsuccessful,__  
__And fortune prove to me a slippery ball,__  
__That a favouring gale it may ne'er blow on me,__  
__If forsake you in the Iron Hills._

_And to conclude and to end these verses,__  
__May Mahal protect this young female fair,__  
__And keep her from every wild embarrassment,__  
__And of my darling take the greatest care.__  
__For she's slow to anger and of kind disposition,__  
__And her cheeks like roses in June do bloom,__  
__In my nightly slumbers when e'er I think on her,__  
__I could court her vision in the Iron Hills."_

More applause and a few cheers this time.

"That's a right song for us Bofur, well done!"

"You would say that Gloin – you think of your lass across in the Blue Mountains because she's your wife." Dori complained.

"Aye, and what of it? She's still as pretty a lass as ever I did see. And I seem to recall that none of you are married."

Nori and Bombur pulled a face at that, and Bofur decided it was the right time to play one of his favourite tunes. He gave a brief nod in Bifur's direction before beginning to play, and when the rest of the Company recognised the song, they began humming along, Dori tapping the table and Kili banging cutlery in time to the music.

_"Oh rise up my darling and come with me__  
__I want to go with you and leave this country__  
__To leave my father's dwelling, this house and the land"__  
__So away goes Jamie with his love in his arms._

_They go over hills and the mountains and glens__  
__Travelling all through the night in the mist in the rain__  
__But her father has followed and has taken his men__  
__And he captured poor Jamie with his love in his arm._

_s__Now home she was taken to her room she is bound__  
__While poor Jamie lies on the cold stoney ground__  
__And he knows all the while before the judge he will stand__  
__For the stealing of nothing but his own true love's hand_

Here, Bofur nodded in the direction of Dwalin, who happily took the lines of the gaoler.

_In the cold hard iron his hands they are bound__  
__Handcuffed like a murderer and tied to the ground__  
__And the jailer tells Jamie "last night I did hear__  
__That your Lady will hang you or else set you clear"_

Fili was appointed the judge with a nod from Bofur.

_The judge says "this young girl being tender in youth__  
__If Jamie is guilty she will tell the truth"__  
__Then the radiant beauty before him did stand__  
__"Oh I'm happy to see you my bold Irish lad__" _

Bofur shot a questioning look towards Thorin, offering him the lines sung by the father, despite not expecting him to accept. To everyone's surprise, the dwarf king took the lines and sung them almost with a relish.

_But the father cries out "__Aüle_ have pity on me_  
__For the man came to bring disgrace to my family__  
__And he stole my only daughter, all part of his plan__  
__And if you don't hang him I will quit the land"_

_But the daughter is crying and begging is she__  
__"The fault isn't Jamie's the blame lies with me__  
__I forced him to leave and run away with me__  
__And I'll die if I can't save my bold Jamie"_

_"Good Aüle he has stole all her jewels and her rings__  
__Gold watches and amber, all my precious things__  
__And it's cost me a fortune in thousands of pounds__  
__And I'll take the life of Jamie before I lie in the ground__"_

_Good Aüle I gave them as a token of love__  
__And when we are parted I'll have them removed__  
__But a true lovers token wear on your right hand__  
__And think of me darling when you're in a foreign land"_

Bilbo was grinning stupidly from where he sat by the fire as the music faded.

"You sing very well."

"Thank you master burglar," smiled Bofur, taking a moment to clear his instrument.

"Who was Jamie?"

"Jamie?" Bofur frowned.

"He means Jamie from the song," explained Balin. "No-one really knows laddie. It's a traditional song, and one of Bofur's favourites, but we've no knowledge about the Jamie in the song or whether there even was one. That's why the ending is so unclear; lost throughout time I'd imagine."

Bilbo nodded. "And what's 'Irish'?"

Bofur shrugged. "We don't know that either, but it was probably a town or dwelling or something."

Bilbo smiled his thanks, then, with a quick good night to everyone, took himself off to bed.

Slowly, after more drinking and some crude drinking songs to go with it, the others took themselves to bed, glad of a warm and safe place to sleep.

Yet Bofur stayed by the fire, his feet dangling a little as he sat on one of the great chairs beside the fireplace. The toymaker and musician sat there thinking of his own fair lass back in the Blue Mountains, wondering if the Valar would be kind enough to let them meet again after this quest.

...

**The songs are **_**Blue Mountain River, I am a youth that's inclined to ramble, **_**and**_** Bold Jamie**_** sung by Cara Dillon (I have amended some of them slightly to make them more fitting in Middle Earth).**

**For clarification: ****Aüle** and Mahal are the same god, but Aüle is theeElvish name, and Mahal is the dwarven name.

**Now, a bit of audience participation: I'm going to marry off either Fili or Kili to a character I'm going to make up, but I've not yet decided who. I'd like you to review and tell me who you'd prefer it to be (and yes, it can only be Fili or Kili, for various reasons that will come clear) – whichever gets the majority of reviews, I'll go with that one, and if I don't get any, then I'll simply get my dear friends BasementFullofBandMembers and The Auburn Time Lord to decide. If you want to know the personality of this dwarf lass, then you'll have to wait for her to turn up.**

**Also, any UK residents, please look at the Oliver King Foundation Petition; we're trying to get defibrillators in schools and public buildings in response to the sudden death of 12 year old Oliver King from SADS (sudden adult death syndrome), who was in my little sister's class. **

**Thank you for reading, and I'd be grateful if you have the time for a review and a vote, and to look at the petition.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you, my lovelies, for the reviews and follows and all the appreciation basically. When I've finished one of my other fics (Sky Blue, Bond-Mate) I can focus a bit more on this one, but I'm trying to get that one done first. Sorry that this is rather slow to build, plot-wise, but I want to set the scene **

**Thank you to anyone who looked at that petition, by the way, we reached the target (and exceeded it) so yay!**

**And, just for the sake of something random to say, I thought I might add that I received the key to the secret entrance of Erebor as a Valentine's Day present from my other half **

**Anyway, you're all here for the story, so here it is:**

...

Bofur didn't get much of a chance to sing or play after Beorn's house (apart from a few rude songs to annoy the elves) until they were all safe and housed in Laketown.

Once everyone had slept for a night, and most of the next day, the Company began to cheer up a bit, going back to trading jokes and stories in the way they had done before Mirkwood. That evening, when all members of the Company had downed more mead and ale that was good for them (including Bilbo), the cry for music went up again, but Bofur protested.

"How about a poem, or a ballad instead, lads?"

Without waiting for a response, he launched into one.

'_Morning and evening_

_Maids heard the goblins cry:_

"_Come buy our orchard fruits,_

_Come buy, come buy:_

_Apples and quinces,_

_Lemons and oranges,_

_Plump unpecked cherries,_

_Melons and raspberries,_

_Bloom-down-cheeked peaches,_

_Swart-headed mulberries,_

_Wild free-born cranberries,_

_Crab-apples, dewberries,_

_Pine-apples, blackberries,_

_Apricots, strawberries;—_

_All ripe together_

_In summer weather,—_

_Morns that pass by,_

_Fair eves that fly;_

_Come buy, come buy:_

_Our grapes fresh from the vine,_

_Pomegranates full and fine,_

_Dates and sharp bullaces,_

_Rare pears and greengages,_

_Damsons and bilberries,_

_Taste them and try:_

_Currants and gooseberries,_

_Bright-fire-like barberries,_

_Figs to fill your mouth,_

_Citrons from the South,_

_Sweet to tongue and sound to eye;_

_Come buy, come buy."_

_Evening by evening_

_Among the brookside rushes,_

_Laura bowed her head to hear,_

_Lizzie veiled her blushes:_

_Crouching close together_

_In the cooling weather,_

_With clasping arms and cautioning lips,_

_With tingling cheeks and finger tips._

"_Lie close," Laura said,_

_Pricking up her golden head:_

"_We must not look at goblin men,_

_We must not buy their fruits:_

_Who knows upon what soil they fed_

_Their hungry thirsty roots?"_

"_Come buy," call the goblins_

_Hobbling down the glen._

"_Oh," cried Lizzie, "Laura, Laura,_

_You should not peep at goblin men."_

_Lizzie covered up her eyes,_

_Covered close lest they should look;_

_Laura reared her glossy head,_

_And whispered like the restless brook:_

"_Look, Lizzie, look, Lizzie,_

_Down the glen tramp little men._

_One hauls a basket,_

_One bears a plate,_

_One lugs a golden dish_

_Of many pounds weight._

_How fair the vine must grow_

_Whose grapes are so luscious;_

_How warm the wind must blow_

_Through those fruit bushes."_

"_No," said Lizzie, "No, no, no;_

_Their offers should not charm us,_

_Their evil gifts would harm us."_

_She thrust a dimpled finger_

_In each ear, shut eyes and ran:_

_Curious Laura chose to linger_

_Wondering at each merchant man._

_One had a cat's face,_

_One whiskered a tail,_

_One tramped at a rat's pace,_

_One crawled like a snail,_

_One like a wombat prowled obtuse and furry,_

_One like a ratel tumbled hurry skurry._

_She heard a voice like voice of doves_

_Cooing all together:_

_They sounded kind and full of loves_

_In the pleasant weather._

_Laura stretched her gleaming neck_

_Like a rush-imbedded swan,_

_Like a lily from the beck,_

_Like a moonlit poplar branch,_

_Like a vessel at the launch_

_When its last restraint is gone._

_Backwards up the mossy glen_

_Turned and trooped the goblin men,_

_With their shrill repeated cry,_

"_Come buy, come buy."_

_When they reached where Laura was_

_They stood stock still upon the moss,_

_Leering at each other,_

_Brother with queer brother;_

_Signalling each other,_

_Brother with sly brother._

_One set his basket down,_

_One reared his plate;_

_One began to weave a crown_

_Of tendrils, leaves, and rough nuts brown_

_(Dwarves sell not such in any town);_

_One heaved the golden weight_

_Of dish and fruit to offer her:_

"_Come buy, come buy," was still their cry._

_Laura stared but did not stir,_

_Longed but had no money:_

_The whisk-tailed merchant bade her taste_

_In tones as smooth as honey,_

_The cat-faced purred,_

_The rat-faced spoke a word_

_Of welcome, and the snail-paced even was heard;_

_One parrot-voiced and jolly_

_Cried "Pretty Goblin" still for "Pretty Polly;"—_

_One whistled like a bird._

_But sweet-tooth Laura spoke in haste:_

"_Good folk, I have no coin;_

_To take were to purloin:_

_I have no copper in my purse,_

_I have no silver either,_

_And all my gold is on the furze_

_That shakes in windy weather_

_Above the rusty heather."_

"_You have much gold upon your head,"_

_They answered all together:_

"_Buy from us with a golden curl."_

_She clipped a precious golden lock,_

_She dropped a tear more rare than pearl,_

_Then sucked their fruit globes fair or red:_

_Sweeter than honey from the rock,_

_Stronger than man-rejoicing wine,_

_Clearer than water flowed that juice;_

_She never tasted such before,_

_How should it cloy with length of use?_

_She sucked and sucked and sucked the more_

_Fruits which that unknown orchard bore;_

_She sucked until her lips were sore;_

_Then flung the emptied rinds away_

_But gathered up one kernel stone,_

_And knew not was it night or day_

_As she turned home alone._

_Lizzie met her at the gate_

_Full of wise upbraidings:_

"_Dear, you should not stay so late,_

_Twilight is not good for maidens;_

_Should not loiter in the glen_

_In the haunts of goblin men._

_Do you not remember Jeanie,_

_How she met them in the moonlight,_

_Took their gifts both choice and many,_

_Ate their fruits and wore their flowers_

_Plucked from bowers_

_Where summer ripens at all hours?_

_But ever in the noonlight_

_She pined and pined away;_

_Sought them by night and day,_

_Found them no more, but dwindled and grew grey;_

_Then fell with the first snow,_

_While to this day no grass will grow_

_Where she lies low:_

_I planted daisies there a year ago_

_That never blow._

_You should not loiter so."_

"_Nay, hush," said Laura:_

"_Nay, hush, my sister:_

_I ate and ate my fill,_

_Yet my mouth waters still;_

_To-morrow night I will_

_Buy more;" and kissed her:_

"_Have done with sorrow;_

_I'll bring you plums to-morrow_

_Fresh on their mother twigs,_

_Cherries worth getting;_

_You cannot think what figs_

_My teeth have met in,_

_What melons icy-cold_

_Piled on a dish of gold_

_Too huge for me to hold,_

_What peaches with a velvet nap,_

_Pellucid grapes without one seed:_

_Odorous indeed must be the mead_

_Whereon they grow, and pure the wave they drink_

_With lilies at the brink,_

_And sugar-sweet their sap."_

_Golden head by golden head,_

_Like two pigeons in one nest_

_Folded in each other's wings,_

_They lay down in their curtained bed:_

_Like two blossoms on one stem,_

_Like two flakes of new-fall'n snow,_

_Like two wands of ivory_

_Tipped with gold for awful kings._

_Moon and stars gazed in at them,_

_Wind sang to them lullaby,_

_Lumbering owls forbore to fly,_

_Not a bat flapped to and fro_

_Round their rest:_

_Cheek to cheek and breast to breast_

_Locked together in one nest._

_Early in the morning_

_When the first cock crowed his warning,_

_Neat like bees, as sweet and busy,_

_Laura rose with Lizzie:_

_Fetched in honey, milked the cows,_

_Aired and set to rights the house,_

_Kneaded cakes of whitest wheat,_

_Cakes for dainty mouths to eat,_

_Next churned butter, whipped up cream,_

_Fed their poultry, sat and sewed;_

_Talked as modest maidens should:_

_Lizzie with an open heart,_

_Laura in an absent dream,_

_One content, one sick in part;_

_One warbling for the mere bright day's delight,_

_One longing for the night._

_At length slow evening came:_

_They went with pitchers to the reedy brook;_

_Lizzie most placid in her look,_

_Laura most like a leaping flame._

_They drew the gurgling water from its deep;_

_Lizzie plucked purple and rich golden flags,_

_Then turning homeward said: "The sunset flushes_

_Those furthest loftiest crags;_

_Come, Laura, not another maiden lags._

_No wilful squirrel wags,_

_The beasts and birds are fast asleep."_

_But Laura loitered still among the rushes_

_And said the bank was steep._

_And said the hour was early still_

_The dew not fall'n, the wind not chill;_

_Listening ever, but not catching_

_The customary cry,_

"_Come buy, come buy,"_

_With its iterated jingle_

_Of sugar-baited words:_

_Not for all her watching_

_Once discerning even one goblin_

_Racing, whisking, tumbling, hobbling;_

_Let alone the herds_

_That used to tramp along the glen,_

_In groups or single,_

_Of brisk fruit-merchant men._

_Till Lizzie urged, "O Laura, come;_

_I hear the fruit-call but I dare not look:_

_You should not loiter longer at this brook:_

_Come with me home._

_The stars rise, the moon bends her arc,_

_Each glowworm winks her spark,_

_Let us get home before the night grows dark:_

_For clouds may gather_

_Though this is summer weather,_

_Put out the lights and drench us through;_

_Then if we lost our way what should we do?"_

_Laura turned cold as stone_

_To find her sister heard that cry alone,_

_That goblin cry,_

"_Come buy our fruits, come buy."_

_Must she then buy no more such dainty fruit?_

_Must she no more such succous pasture find,_

_Gone deaf and blind?_

_Her tree of life drooped from the root:_

_She said not one word in her heart's sore ache;_

_But peering thro' the dimness, nought discerning,_

_Trudged home, her pitcher dripping all the way;_

_So crept to bed, and lay_

_Silent till Lizzie slept;_

_Then sat up in a passionate yearning,_

_And gnashed her teeth for baulked desire, and wept_

_As if her heart would break._

_Day after day, night after night,_

_Laura kept watch in vain_

_In sullen silence of exceeding pain._

_She never caught again the goblin cry:_

"_Come buy, come buy;"—_

_She never spied the goblin men_

_Hawking their fruits along the glen:_

_But when the noon waxed bright_

_Her hair grew thin and grey;_

_She dwindled, as the fair full moon doth turn_

_To swift decay and burn_

_Her fire away._

_One day remembering her kernel-stone_

_She set it by a wall that faced the south;_

_Dewed it with tears, hoped for a root,_

_Watched for a waxing shoot,_

_But there came none;_

_It never saw the sun,_

_It never felt the trickling moisture run:_

_While with sunk eyes and faded mouth_

_She dreamed of melons, as a traveller sees_

_False waves in desert drought_

_With shade of leaf-crowned trees,_

_And burns the thirstier in the sandful breeze._

_She no more swept the house,_

_Tended the fowls or cows,_

_Fetched honey, kneaded cakes of wheat,_

_Brought water from the brook:_

_But sat down listless in the chimney-nook_

_And would not eat._

_Tender Lizzie could not bear_

_To watch her sister's cankerous care_

_Yet not to share._

_She night and morning_

_Caught the goblins' cry:_

"_Come buy our orchard fruits,_

_Come buy, come buy;"—_

_Beside the brook, along the glen,_

_She heard the tramp of goblin men,_

_The yoke and stir_

_Poor Laura could not hear;_

_Longed to buy fruit to comfort her,_

_But feared to pay too dear._

_She thought of Jeanie in her grave,_

_Who should have been a bride;_

_But who for joys brides hope to have_

_Fell sick and died_

_In her gay prime,_

_In earliest winter time_

_With the first glazing rime,_

_With the first snow-fall of crisp winter time._

_Till Laura dwindling_

_Seemed knocking at Death's door:_

_Then Lizzie weighed no more_

_Better and worse;_

_But put a silver penny in her purse,_

_Kissed Laura, crossed the heath with clumps of furze_

_At twilight, halted by the brook:_

_And for the first time in her life_

_Began to listen and look._

_Laughed every goblin_

_When they spied her peeping:_

_Came towards her hobbling,_

_Flying, running, leaping,_

_Puffing and blowing,_

_Chuckling, clapping, crowing,_

_Clucking and gobbling,_

_Mopping and mowing,_

_Full of airs and graces,_

_Pulling wry faces,_

_Demure grimaces,_

_Cat-like and rat-like,_

_Ratel- and wombat-like,_

_Snail-paced in a hurry,_

_Parrot-voiced and whistler,_

_Helter skelter, hurry skurry,_

_Chattering like magpies,_

_Fluttering like pigeons,_

_Gliding like fishes,—_

_Hugged her and kissed her:_

_Squeezed and caressed her:_

_Stretched up their dishes,_

_Panniers, and plates:_

"_Look at our apples_

_Russet and dun,_

_Bob at our cherries,_

_Bite at our peaches,_

_Citrons and dates,_

_Grapes for the asking,_

_Pears red with basking_

_Out in the sun,_

_Plums on their twigs;_

_Pluck them and suck them,_

_Pomegranates, figs."—_

"_Good folk," said Lizzie,_

_Mindful of Jeanie:_

"_Give me much and many: —_

_Held out her apron,_

_Tossed them her penny._

"_Nay, take a seat with us,_

_Honour and eat with us,"_

_They answered grinning:_

"_Our feast is but beginning._

_Night yet is early,_

_Warm and dew-pearly,_

_Wakeful and starry:_

_Such fruits as these_

_No man can carry:_

_Half their bloom would fly,_

_Half their dew would dry,_

_Half their flavour would pass by._

_Sit down and feast with us,_

_Be welcome guest with us,_

_Cheer you and rest with us."—_

"_Thank you," said Lizzie: "But one waits_

_At home alone for me:_

_So without further parleying,_

_If you will not sell me any_

_Of your fruits though much and many,_

_Give me back my silver penny_

_I tossed you for a fee."—_

_They began to scratch their pates,_

_No longer wagging, purring,_

_But visibly demurring,_

_Grunting and snarling._

_One called her proud,_

_Cross-grained, uncivil;_

_Their tones waxed loud,_

_Their looks were evil._

_Lashing their tails_

_They trod and hustled her,_

_Elbowed and jostled her,_

_Clawed with their nails,_

_Barking, mewing, hissing, mocking,_

_Tore her gown and soiled her stocking,_

_Twitched her hair out by the roots,_

_Stamped upon her tender feet,_

_Held her hands and squeezed their fruits_

_Against her mouth to make her eat._

_White and golden Lizzie stood,_

_Like a lily in a flood,—_

_Like a rock of blue-veined stone_

_Lashed by tides obstreperously,—_

_Like a beacon left alone_

_In a hoary roaring sea,_

_Sending up a golden fire,—_

_Like a fruit-crowned orange-tree_

_White with blossoms honey-sweet_

_Sore beset by wasp and bee,—_

_Like a royal virgin town_

_Topped with gilded dome and spire_

_Close beleaguered by a fleet_

_Mad to tug her standard down._

_One may lead a horse to water,_

_Twenty cannot make him drink._

_Though the goblins cuffed and caught her,_

_Coaxed and fought her,_

_Bullied and besought her,_

_Scratched her, pinched her black as ink,_

_Kicked and knocked her,_

_Mauled and mocked her,_

_Lizzie uttered not a word;_

_Would not open lip from lip_

_Lest they should cram a mouthful in:_

_But laughed in heart to feel the drip_

_Of juice that syrupped all her face,_

_And lodged in dimples of her chin,_

_And streaked her neck which quaked like curd._

_At last the evil people,_

_Worn out by her resistance,_

_Flung back her penny, kicked their fruit_

_Along whichever road they took,_

_Not leaving root or stone or shoot;_

_Some writhed into the ground,_

_Some dived into the brook_

_With ring and ripple,_

_Some scudded on the gale without a sound,_

_Some vanished in the distance._

_In a smart, ache, tingle,_

_Lizzie went her way;_

_Knew not was it night or day;_

_Sprang up the bank, tore thro' the furze,_

_Threaded copse and dingle,_

_And heard her penny jingle_

_Bouncing in her purse,—_

_Its bounce was music to her ear._

_She ran and ran_

_As if she feared some goblin man_

_Dogged her with gibe or curse_

_Or something worse:_

_But not one goblin scurried after,_

_Nor was she pricked by fear;_

_The kind heart made her windy-paced_

_That urged her home quite out of breath with haste_

_And inward laughter._

_She cried, "Laura," up the garden,_

"_Did you miss me?_

_Come and kiss me._

_Never mind my bruises,_

_Hug me, kiss me, suck my juices_

_Squeezed from goblin fruits for you,_

_Goblin pulp and goblin dew._

_Eat me, drink me, love me;_

_Laura, make much of me;_

_For your sake I have braved the glen_

_And had to do with goblin merchant men."_

_Laura started from her chair,_

_Flung her arms up in the air,_

_Clutched her hair:_

"_Lizzie, Lizzie, have you tasted_

_For my sake the fruit forbidden?_

_Must your light like mine be hidden,_

_Your young life like mine be wasted,_

_Undone in mine undoing,_

_And ruined in my ruin,_

_Thirsty, cankered, goblin-ridden?"—_

_She clung about her sister,_

_Kissed and kissed and kissed her:_

_Tears once again_

_Refreshed her shrunken eyes,_

_Dropping like rain_

_After long sultry drought;_

_Shaking with aguish fear, and pain,_

_She kissed and kissed her with a hungry mouth._

_Her lips began to scorch,_

_That juice was wormwood to her tongue,_

_She loathed the feast:_

_Writhing as one possessed she leaped and sung,_

_Rent all her robe, and wrung_

_Her hands in lamentable haste,_

_And beat her breast._

_Her locks streamed like the torch_

_Borne by a racer at full speed,_

_Or like the mane of horses in their flight,_

_Or like an eagle when she stems the light_

_Straight toward the sun,_

_Or like a caged thing freed,_

_Or like a flying flag when armies run._

_Swift fire spread through her veins, knocked at her heart,_

_Met the fire smouldering there_

_And overbore its lesser flame;_

_She gorged on bitterness without a name:_

_Ah! fool, to choose such part_

_Of soul-consuming care!_

_Sense failed in the mortal strife:_

_Like the watch-tower of a town_

_Which an earthquake shatters down,_

_Like a lightning-stricken mast,_

_Like a wind-uprooted tree_

_Spun about,_

_Like a foam-topped waterspout_

_Cast down headlong in the sea,_

_She fell at last;_

_Pleasure past and anguish past,_

_Is it death or is it life?_

_Life out of death._

_That night long Lizzie watched by her,_

_Counted her pulse's flagging stir,_

_Felt for her breath,_

_Held water to her lips, and cooled her face_

_With tears and fanning leaves:_

_But when the first birds chirped about their eaves,_

_And early reapers plodded to the place_

_Of golden sheaves,_

_And dew-wet grass_

_Bowed in the morning winds so brisk to pass,_

_And new buds with new day_

_Opened of cup-like lilies on the stream,_

_Laura awoke as from a dream,_

_Laughed in the innocent old way,_

_Hugged Lizzie but not twice or thrice;_

_Her gleaming locks showed not one thread of grey,_

_Her breath was sweet as May_

_And light danced in her eyes._

_Days, weeks, months, years_

_Afterwards, when both were wives_

_With children of their own;_

_Their mother-hearts beset with fears,_

_Their lives bound up in tender lives;_

_Laura would call the little ones_

_And tell them of her early prime,_

_Those pleasant days long gone_

_Of not-returning time:_

_Would talk about the haunted glen,_

_The wicked, quaint fruit-merchant men,_

_Their fruits like honey to the throat_

_But poison in the blood;_

_(Dwarves sell not such in any town):_

_Would tell them how her sister stood_

_In deadly peril to do her good,_

_And win the fiery antidote:_

_Then joining hands to little hands_

_Would bid them cling together,_

"_For there is no friend like a sister_

_In calm or stormy weather;_

_To cheer one on the tedious way,_

_To fetch one if one goes astray,_

_To lift one if one totters down,_

_To strengthen whilst one stands."_

There was a round of applause, and Bofur mock-bowed, before drinking from the cup of water and Dori pressed into his hands.

Bofur drank gratefully then glanced up at those surrounding him to find both Bilbo and Ori staring at him with wide eyes. Balin seemed to have noticed this at the same time as Bofur, and the old dwarf chuckled and addressed himself to Ori.

"Have you not heard that one before, laddie?"

Ori shook his head. "How did you _manage_?"

Bofur shrugged. "Easily enough."

"But it went on _forever_! I know ballads are long, but that long?..."

Gloin nodded. "That's why most of us wouldn't even attempt it, but Bofur here wanted to show off."

"But who would write one so long?" Bilbo frowned.

"It used to be a poem, originally, and was set to music only in recent years by the son of the dwarf who wrote it." Balin smiled. "A fine young lad – very talented, as was his mother."

Bilbo nodded absently, just as Dwalin and Nori struck up a very rude drinking song, apparently in relation to a conversation they'd just been having. With great delight, most of the Company joined in, though Dori looked rather displeased, Ori just a little shocked, and Balin rolled his eyes fondly. Bilbo also looked somewhat shocked, making Bofur chuckle.

When the first song had run into another, slightly less rude, song, and that had run into another, also rude, song in Khuzdul (at least the hobbit couldn't be offended by this song), Bofur decided to experiment.

"Here, lads, let's try a song we can all sing!" Bofur smiled at Bilbo and Ori as he said this, before taking up his flute and beginning a lively rhythm of his own composition. He played the tune through twice, so Bifur and Fili could learn it and begin to play it, then he began singing:

'_Kind friends and companions, together combine__  
__And raise up your voices in chorus with mine__  
__We will drink and be merry, all grief to refrain__  
__For we may and might never all meet here again._

_Here's a health to the company and one to my lass__  
__We will drink and be merry, all out of one glass__  
__We will drink and be merry, all grief to refrain__  
__For we may and might never all meet here again._

_Here's a health to the wee lass that I love so well__  
__Her style and her beauty, there's none can excel__  
__A smile on her countenance as she sits on my knee__  
__There is none in this wide world as happy as me._

_Here's a health to the company and one to my lass__  
__We will drink and be merry, all out of one glass__  
__We will drink and be merry, all grief to refrain__  
__For we may and might never all meet here again.'_

The conclusion of the song was met with hearty applause and comments from various members of the Company.

"Well sung, Bofur!"

"Well played!"

"Thinking of a certain lass, are you?"

The applause died down, and Bombur abruptly said, "You wrote that yourself, didn't you, brother?"

Bofur nodded, "aye."

This brought on a whole other round of applause and compliments, especially from Dori (probably glad of a song he approved of) and Oin (who, it seemed, had heard the song very clearly).

...

Later, when all the dwarves were abed, Bofur sat on the porch of the house, smoking his pipe and thinking of his lovely lass back in the Blue Mountains.

He jumped when the door creaked open, and he turned to find Bilbo standing sheepishly in the doorway.

"Bombur's snoring got too loud."

Bofur chuckled, though quietly, so as not to wake anyone.

"Come sit here, master burglar, and share this pipe with me, then we can both turn in."

Bilbo nodded and took a seat, happily taking the offered pipe.

"_Were _you thinking of a special lass?" questioned the hobbit.

"Hmm?"

"When you sang that song?"

Bofur smiled. "Aye, I was, though dwarves don't talk about courting to each other; it's all very private, like."

Bilbo blushed. "I'm so sorry, I didn't know. I didn't mean to be rude..."

"It's quite alright, master hobbit," Bofur interrupted, "You're not a dwarf, so I think I might be willing to share a few secrets with you."

"What's her name?"

"That's the one thing I won't tell you, since it's only fair to her."

Bilbo frowned. "What do you mean?"

"You see, courting's done privately, so as to give the lass a chance to choose or change her mind; if she were to choose someone else she preferred more than me, only I'll know about it. It's entirely up to the lass herself to make sure I'm the only one courting her, and if she has the opportunity to change her mind, it means she will end up in the marriage most likely to produce children, and any scorned lovers will feel better off for knowing that she was fickle or easily persuaded."

"But what about the husband? He wouldn't know."

"On the announcement of his engagement with the lass, any who feel they've been wronged by her have the right to speak to the husband about it and make him aware, though many choose not to."

There was a brief pause and Bofur passed Bilbo the nearly empty pipe.

"What's she like, your lass?"

Bofur smiled, wistfully.

"She's the sweetest lass I ever met, Bilbo, and it's not just me that thinks her so. She's got strong black locks, her beard coming together in one braid, and her hair in a good number. She isn't much taller than you, though she's very strong, with such muscles. She's a stone carver."

"So are dwarf women treated much the same as the men?"

"Aye; they're just as capable as one another with tools or weapons, though we have a higher respect for our women, since they can build homes too."

Bilbo nodded. "And can you tell them apart?"

"Of course _I_ can, burglar, though whether _you _can is a different matter entirely. I've been told they're hard to distinguish, for other races."

A moment's silence.

"How did you meet your lass?"

"We were both selling our wares in Bree on the way back to the Blue Mountains, and we struck up a companionship."

Bilbo yawned, then stood and headed towards the door, turning round just before he opened it.

"Goodnight Bofur. I look forward to maybe, urm, meeting your lass, sometime?"

The dwarf smiled. "Aye lad; you'll be the first I invite to the wedding, after my own family."

Bilbo smiled back, and quietly entered the house as he heard Bofur begin to hum, low and gentle.

As the hobbit settled back into his bed and curled up under the blanket for warmth, he heard the gentle music of Bofur's singing drifting through the window.

'_The snows they melt the soonest when the winds begin to sing__  
__The corn it ripens fastest when the frosts are settling in__  
__And when the young dwarf tells me that my face he'll soon forget__  
__Before we part I'll wage a coin, he's fain to follow yet_

_And the snows they melt the soonest when the winds begin to sing__  
__The swallows fly without a thought as long as it is spring__  
__But when spring blows and winter goes my love then you'll be free__  
__For all your pride to follow me across the raging main_

_The snows they melt the soonest when the winds begin to sing__  
__And the bee that flew when summer shone in winter cannot sting__  
__I've seen the young dwarf's anger melt between the night and the morn__  
__So it's surely not a harder thing to melt a young dwarf's scorn_

_So don't you bid me farewell here, no farewell I receive,__  
__For you will lie with me my love and kiss then take your leave__  
__And I'll wait here 'til the moorcock calls and the Martin takes the wind__  
__For the snows they melt the soonest when the wind begins to sing.'_

Bilbo was asleep long before the end of the song, after which Bofur knocked out any remaining ash from his pipe and went inside, climbing into bed and falling asleep not long after.

...

**These songs are **_**Goblin Market**_** by Christina Rossetti (and yes, I'm aware that it's actually a poem, but I thought it would fit well in Middle Earth, though I made a couple of small changes), **_**Here's a Health**_**, and **_**The Snows they melt the soonest **_**both of which are sung by Cara Dillon.**

**Sorry this was really long mainly because of the length of **_**Goblin Market**_**, I hope you don't mind, and sorry if you do! I got a bit more plot in this time!**

**Wow, it **_**was**_** long wasn't it?**

**Reviews and favourites always welcome, and thank you for reading **


	3. Chapter 3

**Having received my new Bellowhead CD in the post, I was encouraged to write anot her chapter, and it feels really good to be publishing again, now the real life is a bit less busy.**

**I've come to appreciate Nori/Dwalin, so I might give that a go in this fic (prob ably not much more than flirting yet tho ugh, and it can just be interpreted as b anter if you prefer). The idea of what N ori did came from the story on AO3 'your axe to my throat, my knife to yours', w hich is a very good Nori/Dwalin story.**

**For those who're concerned about slow pl ot progression, I'll say this; the prope r main plot doesn't start until some tim e after the reclamation of Erebor, but a t the moment I'm setting the scene and g iving you important pieces of informatio n that you'll need to remember for later .**

**Enjoy the chapter **

...

Bofur sat on the front porch of the house they'd been lent in Lake-town, smoking his pipe and watching the people that passed by. To his left sat Bifur and Ori, the former was whittling something (Bofur couldn't see what it was from where he sat), and the latter was rapidly scribbling on a piece of parchment.

Bifur grunted at a small mark he'd just made (though whether he was pleased or annoyed, Bofur couldn't tell), and Bofur looked up to see Ori watching him. The young dwarf quickly looked away.

"Ori, lad, is there something the matter ?"

Bofur was never one to beat about the bush, as they say.

"No."

"What is it then?"

"Do you think you could teach me some songs?"

"You mean to sing?"

"Aye, or to play – I can learn to play the whistle, or something else."

"Why d'ya want to learn?"

Ori blushed.

"Come, lad, you can tell me. I won't tell a soul."

The young dwarf nervously glanced toward s Bifur, who shook his head without look ing up.

"And neither will Bifur."

"Well...there's a lad back in the Blue Mountains, and...urm..."

"Is this lad your lad, by any chance?"

Ori nodded vigorously.

"And you want help wooing him?"

"Well, no – we're already...together...but he likes music, and I'm not much good at it."

Bofur smiled, "well I think we can sort that. Do you want love songs, or just any songs?"

"Just any songs, but I liked that one you played at Beorn's house."

"Which one?"

"About Jamie."

"Well, we can do that one – do you know the words?"

"Some of them."

"Oi, Bifur, will you give us a hand? Go get your harp."

Bifur replied with a flick of hands meaning 'in a minute', and Bofur set to finishing his pipe.

A few minutes later, a thought occurred to Bofur, just as his cousin rose to fetch his harp.

"Ori, does anyone else know about your l ad?"

Ori shook his head, braids bouncing. "If you mean my brothers, then no, they don 't know."

"Don't you think you should tell them?"

"Tell us what?"

Poor Ori jumped as Nori sauntered out on to the porch. No-one said anything.

"What should my little brother be telling me?"

Bofur held up his hands in a gesture of surrender.

"I can't tell you – I'm sworn to secrecy."

Bifur held up his hands in the same way, and all eyes turned to Ori.

The young dwarf blushed red and tried to speak a couple of times before anything actually came out, but when it did, it sounded surprisingly confident.

"I've got a lad back in the Blue Mountains."

Nori smiled indulgently. "Is he good to you?"

"Aye."

"Then I'm happy for you, brother – there 's no reason to think I wouldn't be."

Ori smiled and, at the same moment, there was the crash of a door being thrown open.

"And I think that's my cue to leave."

Ori's eyes widened as he stared at his brother, but Bofur just laughed.

"What did you do this time, Nori?"

Nori grinned and held up what was unmist akably Dwalin's pipe, favourite pipeweed and boot-knife, before he leapt over the edge of the porch and hurled off down the street, stopping a safe distance away.

Less than a second later, Dwalin tore out of the front doorway and onto the porch, growling and glancing round.

"Lost something, Dwalin?" Bofur asked, in his usual cheery manner.

"That damned thief has my pipe, and my knife."

"Bilbo? He wouldn't do such a thing!" Bo fur did his best to look shocked.

"Not the burglar – the thief – his brother!" Dwalin gestured at Ori, who, given confidence by Bofur, decided to join in with the teasing.

"Dori?" Ori frowned, hoping his acting kills were up to par, and behind Dwalin' s back, Bifur stifled a laugh.

"For the love of Mahal! Nori's taken my pipe! Nori! Not anyone else!"

"He must like you then," commented Ori.

Dwalin looked at him in horror and Bofur was caught between staring in surprise as well and laughing so hard he'd fall ff his chair. He went for the former as best as he could.

"He only acts like this around people he likes," confirmed Ori, with a nod.

Dwalin stepped off the porch into the street and looked as if he was about to deny what Ori had said, when a loud wolf-whistle sounded a short distance away. Dwalin looked over and, on catching sight of Nori waving at him, took off with a roar.

The three on the porch couldn't contain their mirth anymore, and loud hoots of laugher rang down the street. When Bifur finally got up to get his harp, Bofur thought to ask Ori if Nori actually did like Dwalin, but Ori just shrugged and glanced away in the direction they'd run off in before.

Not long after, the music began, drawing out Bilbo, Fili, Kili, Gloin and Oin on to the porch, as well as a small audience of Lake-town residents. Luckily, Bofur didn't mind playing in front of an audience, so he sang as well as ever;

_From noise and bustle far away  
As I walked over each acre  
I never knew what it was to sigh  
Till I saw Betsy Baker_

_At a fair I met her dressed so neat_  
_One Sunday in hot weather_  
_With love I found my heart did beat_  
_As we sang songs together_

_So modestly she turned her head_  
_Though while her voice did quaver_  
_I thought if I ever I could wed_  
_'Twould be with Betsy Baker_

_When the fair was over_  
_Out she went_  
_But I did follow after_  
_Determined I would not be balked_  
_I spoke to Betsy Baker_

_But all my treaty she did slight_  
_And I was forced to leave her_  
_I got no sleep at all that night_  
_For love had brought a fever_

_From noise and bustle far away_  
_As I walked over each acre_  
_I never knew what it was to sigh_  
_Till I saw Betsy Baker_

_At last she got acquainted_  
_With a ramping, mad play actor_  
_He gammoned her to run away_  
_And I lost Betsy Baker_

_Although I strived another way_  
_My heart will never forsake her_  
_I dream all night and think all day_  
_Of cruel Betsy Baker_

_From noise and bustle far away_  
_As I walked over each acre_  
_I never knew what it was to sigh_  
_I never knew what it was to sigh_  
_I never knew what it was to sigh_  
_Till I saw Betsy Baker_

_Noise and bustle far away_  
_As I walked over each acre_  
_I never knew what it was to sigh_  
_Till I saw Betsy Baker_

Bofur finished with a little musical twiddle on his whistle, then sat back and smiled at the applause.

He and Bifur then played a few dancing r eels, as well as Fili on his fiddle, and no-one was surprised when Kili began to dance, pulling the hobbit over to dance with him.

When they were done, it was Gloin who began the next song, a nonsense drinking song that made a few people laugh.

_Some mates and I in a public house__  
__Were playing dominoes last night__  
__When all of a sudden in the pot-man came __  
__With his face all chalky white__  
__"What's up?" says Brown. "Have you seen a ghost?"__  
__"Have you seen your Aunt Mariah?"__  
__"Me Aunt Mariah be blown," said he.__  
__"The bloomin' pub's on fire!"_

_Oh there was Brown, upside down  
Knocking back the whiskey on the floor  
"Booze, booze," the firemen cried  
As they came knocking at the door  
Oh don't let 'em in till it's all mopped up  
Somebody shouted "MacIntyre!"  
And we all got blue blind paralytic drunk  
When the Old Dun Cow caught fire_

_Old Johnson rushed to the port wine tub__  
__And gave it just a few hard knocks__  
__He started taking off his pantaloons__  
__Likewise his shoes and socks__  
__"Hold on," said Tibbs, "If you want to wash your feet__  
__There's a tub of old ale here__  
__Don't wash your feet in the port wine tub__  
__When we've still got some old stale beer "_

_Oh there was Brown, upside down  
Knocking back the whiskey on the floor  
"Booze, booze," the firemen cried  
As they came knocking at the door  
Oh don't let 'em in till it's all mopped up  
Somebody shouted "MacIntyre!"  
And we all got blue blind paralytic drunk  
When the Old Dun Cow caught fire_

_Just then there came such an awful crash __  
__Half the bloomin' roof gave way__  
__We were doused with a fireman's hose__  
__But still we were all gay.__  
__So we got some sacks, and some old tin tacks__  
__And we bunged ourselves inside__  
__And we all got drinking good old Scotch__  
__'Til we was bleary-eyed_

_Oh there was Brown, upside down  
Knocking back the whiskey on the floor  
"Booze, booze," the firemen cried  
As they came knocking at the door  
Oh don't let 'em in till it's all mopped up  
Somebody shouted "MacIntyre!"  
And we all got blue blind paralytic drunk  
When the Old Dun Cow caught fire_

_Fire! Fire! Fire!_

_And we all got blue blind paralytic drunk  
When the Old Dun Cow caught fire._

Bofur trailed off with a lingering note on his whistle, and was quite surprised when one of the human men started another song, which was soon taken up by all of their human audience, and Bofur did his best to learn the tune and listen to the words.

_Way down south where the whale-fish blow __  
__Way down in Florida__  
__The girls all dance to the roll-and-go__  
__And we'll roll the woodpile down_

_When I was a young man in my prime__  
__Way down in Florida__  
__I was courting pretty girls two at a tim e__  
__And we'll roll the woodpile down_

_Rolling! Rolling! Rolling the whole world 'round  
That fine girl of mine's on the Georgia Line  
And we'll roll the woodpile down_

_But now I'm old and getting grey__  
__Way down in Florida__  
__I can only manage one a day__  
__And we'll roll the woodpile down_

_Rolling! Rolling! Rolling the whole world 'round  
That fine girl of mine's on the Georgia Line  
And we'll roll the woodpile down_

_We'll haul 'em high and we'll haul 'em low__  
__We'll bust their blocks and away we'll go__  
__Oh "rouse 'em, buster!" is the cry__  
__A poor man's wage is never high_

_Rolling! Rolling! Rolling the whole world 'round  
That fine girl of mine's on the Georgia Line  
And we'll roll the woodpile down_

_Rolling! Rolling! Rolling the whole world 'round  
That fine girl of mine's on the Georgia Line  
And we'll roll the woodpile down_

_Rolling! Rolling! Rolling the whole world 'round  
That fine girl of mine's on the Georgia Line  
And we'll roll the woodpile down._

There was a cheer from the humans as the song concluded, but there was a distinct look of horror on the faces of some of the dwarves.

"Courting pretty girls _two at a time_?!" Ori hissed

"Aye, what's wrong with that? It's just a song," called the man nearest to the young dwarf.

Ori merely spluttered as Fili and Kili shared confused looks.

"But how did you find _two_ lasses that would take you?" asked Kili.

The poor man just frowned, unsure what was meant by the question, but beginning to feel like it was an insult.

"It's different for humans, Kili." Oin d ecided to intervene, apparently having no problems with hearing what was being said, probably because of the shiny new ear trumpet he held to his ear. "There's a lot more human lasses – about half of humans are women, but less than a third of dwarves are. And we probably court differently too."

"Aye," nodded the man, then took his opportunity to leave before he was questioned any more by the strange visitors to Lake-town.

Most of the dwarves on the porch were still confused.

"I can understand flirting with more than one lass at once, but _courting_?"

"That's what the song means, Fili – it means 'flirting', as you put it – it don' t mean proper courting like Gloin did for his wife, or like any of us could have been doing before we left."

"I'm sure most of those places in the song aren't even real," Gloin commented.

Ori huffed. "Humans _are_ a strange lot, aren't they?"

"They most certainly are, brother."

All heads whipped round to stare at Nori as he came out the front door and sat on the edge of the porch.

"What about Dwalin?" Bofur raised an eye brow.

"I gave him what he wanted," Nori replied, dismissively, "but back on topic – humans are very strange; I once met a woman who put beetles in her pies."

"She did _what_?!"

Bilbo's was not the only appalled exclamation, and Nori was clearly very pleased with this response

"Aye – she filled her pies with beetles, and worms and other grubs, then gave them out to the poor folk in the town." The youngest three dwarves pulled faces at the very idea. "And they wrote a song about her too."

Bofur smiled, "let's hear it then."

Nori grinned, cleared his throat, and began to sing:

_Come all you fine ladies__  
__Listen to my tale__  
__A curious story__  
__To you I will tell__  
__Such a strange little tale__  
__Such a nasty surprise__  
__There's a lady who feeds the poor on her __  
__Black beetle pies_

_All you that are hungry__  
__Do not despair__  
__At Raglan House Brixton__  
__Quickly repair__  
__She is so benevolent__  
__To all who go there__  
__And you'll get a nice supper__  
__I vow and declare_

_You can fill your hungry bellies__  
__Before you depart__  
__She'll hand out to Tom, Dick and Nellie__  
__A stinking slice of her black beetle tart_

_The gardener next door__  
__Was a very nice man__  
__She gave him such a pie__  
__As nobody can__  
__When he took off the crust of it__  
__He found after a pause__  
__That the inside was stuffed with this fine lady's drawers_

_Black beetle pies, black beetle pies__  
__Black beetle pies, black beetle pies__  
__Black beetle pies, black beetle pies_

_Well she laughed in his face then__  
__Her breath made him close both his eyes__  
__She said, "I'm longing to feed you up on my__  
__Nice hearty black beetle pies"__  
__And this is the treatment__  
__She gives to the poor__  
__Who happen to find their way to her__  
__Lodging house door_

_And if I had my way__  
__She'd get a surprise__  
__I'd stuff her cram full of those__  
__Nasty, stinking black beetle pies_

_Black beetle pies, black beetle pies__  
__Black beetle pies, black beetle pies__  
__Black beetle pies, black beetle pies_

"I'm sure I'll never understand the ways of men," Gloin commented, before turning and going back inside. He was followed by Kili and Oin, the latter commenting that he wasn't sure he _wanted_ to understand the ways of men.

Ori helped Nori braid his hear then, and Bifur took out a new piece of wood, beginning to carve what Bofur thought might be a little whistle for Ori. Fili and Bofur took out their pipes for a smoke (another smoke, in Bofur's case) and sat watching the hustle and bustle of the town as the day drew to a close.

...

**The songs are **_**Betsy Baker**_**, **_**The Old Dun Cow, Roll the Woodpile Down **_**and **_**Black Beetle Pies **_**by Bellowhead.**

**Hope you liked this chapter - reviews ar e welcome **


	4. Chapter 4

**Thank you everyone for your reviews and for reading – I'm glad people are enjoying it **** Special thanks to harrylee94 for all the encouragement **

**Just a note – this has spoilers for the end of the book, so I hope you've read it.**

**Also – I didn't write the Misty Mountains song; Tolkien did.**

**I hope you enjoy **

...

Smaug was dead.

Dead.

The dragon that had lazily sat in Erebor for nearly 200 years (well before almost all of them were born) was gone.

The raven had brought the news, and before they all had time to think on it properly, they were rushing back to the mountain. Bofur could feel the goldlust in him; he could see the dragon-sickness in everyone, except for Bilbo, and he wondered whether his and his family's past poverty was what influenced such feelings in him now.

He stepped over to a nearby pile of gold, picking up a handful of coins and letting the riches run through the gaps between his fingers, as if it was liquid gold he was holding. Then he picked up a small carved emerald, contentedly examining it before dropping it and wandering back to the group.

He passed Bifur who, previously unconcerned about anything that didn't come from nature, was gazing in awe at a silver circlet he reverently held in his hands. Bombur was a little way away, with Gloin, both sorting through a pile of gems for one that was 'just right' for their lasses (Gloin's wife and Bombur's intended). Thorin, along with the ever-loyal Dwalin and his brother Balin, were silently searching for the arkenstone. Nori was seated by himself in a corner, clearly inspecting and placing a value on the golden statue on his lap. Dori and Oin appeared to be good-naturedly debating the merits of different metals, and Fili, Kili and Ori were playing among the piles of treasure.

Bofur smiled at the scene in front of him and went to sit beside Bifur, not noticing how unhappy poor Bilbo seemed.

They were only dwarves after all; love of gold was as much a part of them as the love of nature was part of a hobbit.

...

That night they sat around the campfire, each quietly contented with his own thoughts, some of them fondling a favourite gem or artefact.

A crackling of the fire snapped Bofur out of his thoughts (thoughts that were, unfortunately, but perhaps understandably, rather too focused on gold) and he glanced round at the Company.

After a moment, he took a breath and began to sing;

_The time passes over__  
__More cheerful and gay_

Thorin, Balin, Bifur, Nori and Dori sharply looked up at him.

_Since we learned a new act__  
__To drive sorrows away_

Bofur picked up his whistle and picked up the tune, and when he began to sing again, some of the Company joined in.

_Bright Phoebe awakes__  
__So high up in the sky__  
__With her red rosy cheeks__  
__And her sparkling eye_

_Sparkling eye__  
__Sparkling eye__  
__With her red rosy cheeks__  
__And her sparkling eye_

_If you ask for my credit__  
__You'll find I have none__  
__With my bottle and friend__  
__You will find me at home_

_Find me at home__  
__Find me at home__  
__With my bottle and friend__  
__You will find me at home_

_Although I'm not rich__  
__And although I'm not poor__  
__I'm as happy as those__  
__That's got thousands or more_

_Thousands or more__  
__Thousands or more__  
__Thousands or more__  
__Thousands or more__  
__Thousands or more__  
__I'm as happy as those__  
__That's got thousands or more_

Although the song was a cheerful one, it drew all the dwarves into a deep contemplation. It was Thorin who broke the silence that followed.

"A song of exile..."

Balin smiled and reached over to rest his hand on Thorin's arm.

"It's been sung for the last time, laddie. We're in exile no longer."

And, at that, the Company scrambled for their instruments to celebrate with lively music, and the strong wine that had been discovered in one of the deeper wine cellars. Bilbo sidled over to sit between Ori and Bofur while everyone did so.

"A song of exile? But it sounded so happy..."

"Aye lad," Bofur smiled, and briefly blew a note on his whistle before continuing, "it was to lift our spirits while in exile – trying to be cheerful about things that should've made us all weep."

Just then, Fili struck up a dancing reel on his fiddle, and Bofur quickly joined in with his whistle. Kili managed to convince a few of the Company to get up and dance, and dance they did; for hours the songs flowed from one to another, just as freely as the wine flowed.

Bofur didn't know who began first playing that particular melody, but he knew that it was Fili who started the words; new words, full of hope and expectation.

_Under the Mountain dark and tall,_

_The King has come unto his hall!_

_His foe is dead, the Worm of Dread,_

_And ever so his foes shall fall! _

_The sword is sharp, the spear is long,_

_The arrow swift, the Gate is strong._

_The heart is bold that looks on gold;_

_The dwarves no more shall suffer wrong. _

_The dwarves of yore made mighty spells,_

_While hammers fell like ringing bells_

_In places deep, where dark things sleep,_

_In hollow halls beneath the fells. _

_On silver necklaces they strung_

_The light of stars, on crowns they hung_

_The dragon-fire, from twisted wire_

_The melody of harps they wrung. _

_The mountain throne once more is freed!_

_O! Wandering folk, the summons heed!_

_Come haste! Come haste! Across the waste!_

_The king of friend and kin has need. _

_Now call we over the mountains cold,_

"_Come back unto the caverns old!"_

_Here at the gates the king awaits,_

_His hands are rich with gems and gold. _

_The king has come unto his hall_

_Under the Mountain dark and tall._

_The Worm of Dread is slain and dead,_

_And ever so our foes shall fall!_

Thorin sat there, looking entirely too flattered by the song, and almost as if he had slain the great dragon himself. And yet everyone carried on, feeling as if they also had fought against the dragon, when the only one among them who'd been brave enough to face Smaug was Bilbo, who was sitting in between Ori and Bofur, looking half anguished, and half relieved.

From there, the night descended into drunkenness and revelry of the best kind; that of comradeship, victory, and relief. _Everyone _got at least a little bit drunk, Bilbo included (Fili and Kili somehow convinced him to have a bit too much wine), and they were soon rambling on about inconsequential nonsense.

Gloin and Bombur began arguing about who had the handsomer woman (personally, Bofur thought they were about level, but he didn't want to get involved), and Bilbo and Ori appeared to be getting rather verbally affectionate with everyone, telling them how much they admired them, or in Thorin's case, liked his fur coat. Nori appeared to end an argument with Dwalin by running off down a corridor that had been explored earlier, Dwalin taking off in pursuit, and those watching (Bofur, Kili, Fili and Oin) placing bets on something they wouldn't actually voice, for fear Dori would hear. Thorin sat with Fili, Balin and Dori, all happily planning how Erebor would look once it had been cleared and repaired.

None of the dwarves had ever heard the human phrase 'don't count your chickens before they've hatched'.

...

**The songs were **_**Thousands or more **_**by Bellowhead, and **_**Under the Mountain **_**(to the tune of **_**Over the Misty **_**Mountains) by Tolkien (sorry the formatting for that one is a bit weird - I can't fix it).**

**I was going to make this longer with another song, but I think I'll leave it here, because this works well without me ruining it by trying to fit in another song.**

**I wanted to explore the dwarves' love of gold – from Bilbo and Tolkien's (and our) point of view, it's a bad, greedy attitude to have, but I suppose I wanted to remind you all that love of gold and metals is what comes naturally to dwarves, and it does make some degree of sense that they all reacted the way they did. I also didn't want Bofur to be different (ie, able to see what might happen, or to be any less bothered about the gold) just because he's my focus of this story. I was going to have a vague sense of foreboding, but it never seemed to happen, and I'm happy with this chapter the way it is.**

**The way Bilbo behaves when drunk is a reference to the story 'Keep the Hobbit away from Dwarven Beer', which is well worth a read if you want a laugh.**

**Thanks for reading – reviews always appreciated :)**

**Edit: I just noticed the mistake about Bombur's wife, so have fixed it (in the first chapter, Gloin comments that no-one else is married, but in this chapter, I said that Bombur was).**


	5. Chapter 5

**Here's just a bit of a filler chapter, as we round off the canon plot of the Hobbit (meaning that the next chapter will happen after the Battle of the Five Armies), and begin the solo adventures of Bofur the brilliant. That isn't technically his title, unfortunately.**

**More references to Your Axe to my Throat , My Knife to Yours, because I can't help it.**

**Continued thanks to everyone (especially harrylee94) for reading and reviewing **

...

Just because loving gold comes naturally to a dwarf, it does not mean that dragon-sickness, also often know as gold-madness, is in any way normal.

Bofur saw that madness in Thorin's eyes, watched, helpless, as he swung their poor burglar over the side of the cliff, ready to drop him to his death. Bofur saw the gold-madness in the eyes of his king, the same way it must have looked in Thror's eyes all those decades ago, and for once he wasn't able to hide his fear; it showed on his face plainly for all to see. For if Thorin had succumbed to the dragon-sickness, there was no hope for them in this siege; they would all die of starvation or, if the madness became too much for him, they might meet with a quicker, more violent end. Nori didn't think anyone else had heard him when he was talking to Dwalin the day before, but Bofur had heard. The ever cheerful miner had heard Nori tell of heists gone bad, of goldlust resulting in murders, slaughters, and Bofur had heard the fear in Nori's voice. His heart felt as cold as the stone surrounding them, for if Nori was scared that such a thing might happen here, now, then it would happen, as like as not.

In the following hours, everyone sat inside the great hall, Thorin's angry shouts calmed to a deadly anger that simmered quietly below the surface. All the Company feared for Bilbo's safety, should he ever cross paths with the angry King Under the Mountain again.

When Balin and Bifur had finished trying to reason with Thorin, the king went to sit by the hastily constructed yet strong wall, staring at the piles of gold that covered the floor of the cavern. Everyone remained quiet and seated where they were, afraid to move in case they provoked Thorin's anger. The two heirs of Durin looked especially grim-faced.

Bofur glanced at Ori sitting next to him , and at Bombur sitting on his other side, then up at the Company, who were spaced about the cavern. _They need a distraction_, Bofur thought, _and, as always, I'll be the one providing it_.

"So, Ori, lad," Bofur paused long enough for Ori to look up, then continued. "How long you been courting that lad o' yours?"

Ori blushed. "Nearly three years."

"You'll need t' tell Dori when it gets t' five."

"I know, and I will."

"You could tell him now..."

"Now?! I can't tell him now, he won't like it! I'll tell him when Erebor's been reclaimed properly, and this whole arkenstone business has been fixed."

Thorin glanced towards them, as if perking up at the word 'arkenstone', but he was too far away to hear, and he went unheeded.

"You'll just keep putting it off until i t reaches five years and an engagement, and then Dori will really be furious. It 's not like they'll meet until you get engaged anyway."

"But I'm scared..."

"I'm right here, and so's Bombur, aren't you brother?"

"Right here, and willing to help."

Ori glanced round at Bofur and Bombur, a s well as Gloin and Balin, who were sit ing close. He nodded.

"Alright then."

"Oi! Nori! Dori! Over here!" Bofur shrugged at the frown Balin sent him; there was no point faffing around – may as well get on with it.

The brothers Ri halted their conversation, paused, then made their way over. Most of the rest of the Company not-so-subtly shuffled closer as well.

"Ori's got something to tell ye." Bofur gave Ori an encouraging look, and Ori took a deep breath...

"I'mcourtingadwarfintheBlueMountainsandhe'sreallyl ovelyandyou'dlovehimandpleasedon'tbemad..."

Dori frowned at his brother. "You've been courting?"

"Aye."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

There was a pause, then Nori answered.

"Because he's too scared you'd tell him he was too young, or rip his beloved limb from limb! You don't let him have his space to grow a bit."

"You fuss over him just as much as I do! And he's of age – he's old enough to court, even if he isn't old enough to marry yet. He can court who he pleases as long as they treat him well and make him happy." Dori eyed his younger brother affectionately. "And if they don't treat him well, _then _I'll rip them limb from limb."

There were relieved smiles on most faces , and Ori's countenance lit up. He pulled his brothers to sit down next to him, and began chattering excitedly.

"You'll love him Dori – he's so clever, and he knows everything about stone and being a stone mason. He's only twenty years older than me, but a lot taller, and ..."

Most of the Company discreetly moved away from the brothers Ri, giving them their space.

...

It was a while later that Fili and Kili sat down beside Bofur, the former absently plucking the strings of his fiddle.

"Alright lads?"

The brothers smiled at each other, then looked at Bofur. It was Kili who answered.

"We came to see how much you're willing to share about your lass."

Bofur raised an eyebrow, and Fili whacked his brother on the shoulder.

"You clot, that was really rude!" Fili turned to Bofur. "He meant that we wanted to know about courting itself."

"Oh? Ain't yer ma ever told you?"

They shook their heads.

"Not much: it reminds her of da, and we don't want to upset her by asking." Fili explained.

"I see your point, but what about asking yer Uncle Thorin?"

Bofur was met with two deadpan expressions.

"Alright, alright, what do you want to know?"

"Where did the tradition come from about courting five years before an agreement , then another five years before marriage?" Kili asked, expectantly.

"Where'd it come from?" Bofur frowned. " I don't know, lads – ask Balin or someone..."

Bofur was interrupted by his cousin sitting down next to him, and telling him to shut up with a deliberate flick of his hand.

_I'll tell them_, Bifur signed.

"Since when did you know about history, an' where traditions came from?" Bofur smiled.

Bifur snorted. _Since I decided I wanted to know. Now, translate for the boys._

"Bifur's gonna tell you, an' I'm gonna translate."

Fili and Kili looked surprised, but they didn't object, and Bifur began frantically signing.

_Nearly a century ago, Thráin I ruled Erebor after the deaths of his father and grandfather at the hands of Durin's Bane. He had not even reached his majority when he first learned of his father's death and was crowned king, but he had since grown into a strong and fair ruler, even though some considered him to be harsh. Thráin married the lass his father had picked out for him, named Pavan, and they were content together. Soon after he reached his hundredth birthday, his eldest son, Thorin I, was born. Six years later, he had another son, Hûrn, and eight years after that, a daughter. She was called Lyla; named for the night, since her mother birthed her in the night of the month when there was no moon, and her hair was dark, like most Durins. Likewise, she inherited the common Durin impetuousness, and their temper – she was well known for her temper, for though she was not quick to anger, her wrath would smoulder beneath the surface, and could last for years._

Bofur glanced over at the brothers, then at Thorin to see their reaction to what could be considered an insult to their family line. There was no reaction, for the boys were intent upon the tale, and Thorin had slipped into a restless sleep . Bofur quickly looked back at Bifur, pleased that his cousin had paused for a moment so he wouldn't miss anything. Bifur took up the tale again.

_When Lyla had just reached her majority, she met a dwarf named Várûn. He was the son of one of the nobles who were on a state visit from the Iron Hills. She was drawn to his red hair, elaborate braids, and tall stature, and he was similarly drawn to her appearance, as well as her status and riches. They became close for the duration of the nobles' stay and, when the nobles prepared to depart after four months, declared their intention to marry one another._

Bofur's eyebrows rose; he'd never heard this story before, but he could already guess where it was going. _Foolish children, _he thought.

_Thráin pleaded with them to consider for longer, at least a few years, and get to know one another more, but the pair were adamant, and the shortest wait they would concede to was that of eight months , making it only a year since they had first met. Thráin could not refuse them, since then, as now, it was considered a great wrong to impede a marriage between two consenting adults, so preparations were made._

Bombur and Balin took a seat next to Bifur, but the toymaker paid them no mind, and continued to weave his tale.

_The marriage was a grand affair, and the celebrations lasted for a week, as is customary. Soon after Lyla and Várûn removed to the Iron Hills, and Thráin heard little from them for three years, though he was not surprised and did not worry; he thought that, as some humans say, 'no news is good news', so he simply let them be._

_Almost four years since Lyla and Várûn had left, Lyla arrived back in Erebor. She was cold, wet, and ill, for there had been a storm but two days before. She also brought with her a babe less than a month old. As soon as she was given her old rooms, tended to, and the babe taken to be nursed, Thráin went to see his daughter. She told her father that the marriage had been happy, until she had come to know Várûn properly; he was demanding, and cruel when he did not get his way, though always made a great show of caring for her in public. Lyla realised she had not known the dwarf she had married, and that Várûn had not cared to know her._

_When Lyla was found to be with child, Várûn proclaimed it to be a daughter, though he had no way of knowing. He desired a daughter for the status that would bring him, and as a bargaining advantage, should he ever need one. When the birth came and the babe turned out to be a boy, Várûn flew into a rage, and Lyla would have matched him, had she not been weak from the birth. He struck her, breaking her jaw, before storming out. From then on, Lyla planned to leave quickly and quietly as soon as she was well enough._

_Thráin was greatly saddened by all his daughter told him, and feared that Várûn might come seeking his wife as soon as he was able. He immediately sent a raven to Várûn's father, in the hope of maintaining peace between the two families, a d the two kingdoms, then he asked after the babe. Lyla said that she had not named the child, and nor did she care to do so, for it had caused her great distress. She asked that a family be found who would care for him, for she did not wish to stay in Erebor._

_Thráin was saddened even more by this response, but went to see his grandson. The dwarfling was strong, for he cried most of the time, regardless of who held him, and thus, Thráin named him Éitan, which means 'strong'. Hûrn, Thráin's second son, took a liking to the child in the days that followed, and soon began to raise him as his own son, with Éitan acting as an older brother to the children Hûrn had once he had married._

_Lyla lingered for many months in her ill , depressed state, while messages were sent backwards and forwards between Várûn's father and Thráin. It seemed that Várûn did not wish to claim his wife or child, though this small kindness mattered little once it became clear the Lyla would not return to health again. Five months after her return to Erebor, Lyla asked to be taken out of the mountain, to the edge of the Greenwood, as Mirkwood was then called. Thráin let her go, but feared, as he watched her leave on a litter carried by four strong soldiers, and followed by some attendants, that he would not see his daughter alive again._

_His fears proved well founded, for Lyla was brought back that evening dead. Thráin mourned deeply for the customary week , and continued to mourn for the rest of his life; though the king knew that Aüle had blessed Lyla by taking her bruised spirit, he mourned what had come to pass with her marriage, and what had forced her from this world so early in her life._

_Exactly a week after Lyla had died, and four days since she had been returned to the stone, Thráin passed a new law, in which he was supported by all his nobles . The law stated that five years must pass between a couple getting engaged and them being joined in marriage. It also forbade any dwarf under the age of eighty to take part in marriage or engagement ceremonies, and was worded as such to encourage a fair time of courting before an engagement. Várûn's father supported Thráin, and encouraged the law to be passed in the Iron Hills as well, and when Erebor fell to Smaug's fire, Durin's folk took the tradition with them to the Blue Mountains and wherever else they went. _

There was a few minutes of silence while everyone digested the story.

"Thank you," Fili said.

Bifur signed something quickly.

"He says it was no bother, lads, and it certainly wasn't for me – I quite enjoyed it, but I think we need a song now to cheer us up after that sad tale," Bofur smiled.

Bifur signed a curse, followed by _Well you asked for that story_.

Bofur signed a curse back, making Bifur laugh, before he thought about what song to play; there was _Bold Jamie_, or his _Here's a Health_ composition, or _10,000 miles away_, or a few simple dancing reels...

Bombur surprised him by deciding for him . The shy cook took a breath, hummed a note, then began singing.

_If I had another penny__  
__I would have another gill__  
__I would make the piper play__  
__'The Bonny Lass of Byker Hill'_

Bofur sat, smiling happily, until the words 'piper' and 'play' reminded him of is part. He scrambled for his whistle, yanking it from under his rolled up bedroll just as Bombur finished the verse.

Without hesitation, Bofur lifted the flute to his lips, and began the tune that was actually called 'the Bonny Lass of Byker Hill'. Halfway through he stopped, then waited a beat, before singing the chorus and the next verse with his brother.

_Byker Hill and Walker Shore  
Collier lads for ever more  
Byker Hill and Walker Shore  
Collier lads for ever more_

_The pitman and the keelman trim__  
__They drink bumble made from gin__  
__Then to dance they all begin__  
__To the tune of the Elsie Marley_

And so Bofur played the short little tune known as 'the Elsie Marley' on his whistle, then sang the chorus with Bombur.

_Byker Hill and Walker Shore  
Collier lads for ever more  
Byker Hill and Walker Shore  
Collier lads for ever more_

Bofur sang the next verse on his own, and Bifur took to tapping out a complex rhythm on his boots.

_When first I went down to the dirt__  
__I had no cowl nor pitshirt__  
__Now I've gotten two or three__  
__Walker Pit's done well by me_

_Byker Hill and Walker Shore  
Collier lads for ever more  
Byker Hill and Walker Shore  
Collier lads for ever more_

A long instrumental followed, where Bofur entwined 'the Elsie Marley' with the whole of 'the Bonny Lass of Byker Hill'. During this instrumental, Fili began experimentally playing upon his fiddle, and Kili had pulled Nori (the nearest dwarf to him who was not singing or playing an instrument) up to dance.

_Byker Hill and Walker Shore  
Collier lads for ever more  
Byker Hill and Walker Shore  
Collier lads for ever more_

Bombur took the next verse by himself.

_All the boys from Walker Shore__  
__Drink half a pint then eighteen more__  
__All the way they rant and roar__  
__To the tune of the Elsie Marley_

Again, 'the Elsie Marley' followed.

_Byker Hill and Walker Shore  
Collier lads for ever more  
Byker Hill and Walker Shore  
Collier lads for ever more_

Bofur took the next verse with pleasure; it had always been his favourite because it made people laugh.

_Geordie Charlton had a pig__  
__He hit it with a shovel and it danced a jig__  
__All the way to Walker Shore__  
__To the tune of the Elsie Marley_

_If I had another penny__  
__I would have another gill__  
__I would make the piper play__  
__'The Bonny Lass of Byker Hill'_

No 'Elsie Marley' or 'Bonny Lass of Byker Hill' this time, as they went straight into the chorus, getting progressively louder.

_Byker Hill and Walker Shore  
Collier lads for ever more  
Byker Hill and Walker Shore  
Collier lads for ever more_

_Byker Hill and Walker Shore  
Collier lads for ever more  
Byker Hill and Walker Shore  
Collier lads for ever more_

The song finished with a loud shout and a trill upon the whistle.

There was applause, and then Kili called for some dancing tunes. Bofur and Fili were happy to oblige, though, after a while, Dwalin left the dancing and took Fili's place playing the fiddle, so the young prince would also have a chance to dance.

Bofur still feared what tomorrow would bring, but for now he decided he would take his own advice; to_ drink and be merry, all grief to refrain, for we may and might never all meet here again_.

...

**A note: if anyone knows I've made a mistake with ancestor/historical things, please point it out to me. I tried to get more information, but I couldn't get anything other than a simple family tree, so I made bits up.**

**Also, the Arabic meaning of Lyla is night, the Biblical meaning of Eitan is strong, Pavan doesn't have a meaning I know of, and I made Hûrn and Várûn up completely.**

**The song is **_**Byker Hill**_** sung by Bellowhead (and by many others too).**

**Reviews always welcome **


	6. Chapter 6

**My thanks to all those who read and reviewed the previous chapter, especially AboveReality for pointing out a weird spacing problem, and harrylee94 for consistently reviewing and supporting me.**

**This chapter takes place **_**after **_**the Battle of Five Armies**__**(incidentally, the acronym for this is BoFA, which sounds like Bofur), and my focus now moves away from the Company as a whole, and more to individuals. What happens with Dwalin happens in 'Your axe to my throat, my knife to yours' which is an amazing Norlin story on AO3, courtesy of thorinsmut. Also, this is **_**not **_**the canon outcome of BoFA. **

**Enjoy :)**

...

Bofur sat on the bedroll, leaning against his jacket, which was rolled up behind him to act as a pillow. Though his eyes were closed, his whistle was at his lips, and his fingers flew over the holes as he played a tune to cheer the other inhabitants of the tent. When he finished, those he had been playing to; Gloin, Balin, Nori and Ori, cheered him, though they did not clap.

They did not clap, because it was an infirmary tent they were all sitting in; Ori had a broken wrist, Gloin had a dislocated shoulder, and Nori and Balin had a few broken ribs each, making clapping a bit difficult for all of them. They were not the only injured ones; Fili and Kili had been lucky to escape with their lives, though each would have a few more scars to show off, and Kili a few less fingers. They were recovering in their own small tent. Thorin's life hung in the balance as an elven healer tended to him, and likewise, Dwalin hung between life and death, the result of him taking a spear for Ori. The last fact had been hidden from Nori, for fear he would make his injury worse by trying to get to Dwalin, since their relationship was no longer a secret, and everyone knew how stubborn Nori could be.

The tent flat opened to let someone in, and Bofur looked up automatically, causing him to curse himself rather viciously in both Khuzdul and the common tongue. He really needed to stop doing that.

Bofur gently reached up to touch the soft bandage that covered his eyes, forehead, cheeks and nose. Although the healers had not been overly optimistic, telling him not to get his hopes up too high, they had told him there was no reason why he should be completely blind forever.

Bofur felt a gentle but insistent hand at his wrist, pulling his hand away from his injured face. He'd recognise his cousin's grip anywhere.

Bofur signed to him, _how is Thorin? _though his signs were rather sloppy, since he couldn't see them.

There was a pause, then he could hear Balin's voice.

"He says that Thorin is only a little better, but that the elves are working hard, and Bilbo is fussing worse than Dori."

There were a few laughs at that, and Bofur's lips quirked up into an almost-smile. Not quite a smile; not yet. No laughing either.

He signed again: _Bombur? And Fili and Kili?_

Balin's voice again. "Bombur is well and helping Oin. Fili and Kili are sleeping, though their wounds will take long to heal."

_What about you?_

Bofur heard a snort of laughter from his cousin.

"When have you ever known me ill?" Balin conveyed.

_When you got that axe in your head_.

This provoked more laughter from Bifur.

Bofur sighed. He never thought it would come to this; needing a translator just to talk to his cousin.

Balin sensed the problem. "Your eyes will work again laddie, don't you worry."

Bofur replied with a complex and dismissive flick of his hand. _Perhaps_. (He hadn't wanted to speak since the battle, so he'd stuck to Iglishmek.) Bofur leant back against his coat again, picking up his whistle and beginning to play once more, though he still heard the hushed conversation going on.

"Will you teach me Iglishmek, Balin?" Nori asked, "I hate to think that I won't be able to understand him while he recovers."

"Me too?" Ori piped up.

"Of course lads – Bifur and I will teach you."

After that, Bofur did his best to immerse himself in the music and ignore the whispered first lesson from the other side of the tent.

...

The mornings were the worst; Bofur would wake up, move his hands to rub the sleepy dust out his eyes while trying to open them. But then his hands would touch soft bandage, and his vision would remain dark, and the memories would come tumbling back to Bofur as his spirits sank.

The toymaker wasn't best pleased that the last thing he had seen, and he wouldn't be surprised if it was the last thing he would ever see, was the snarling face of a warg. Bofur had gone to the aid of a young dwarf, quickly dispatching the orc that had been threatening to injure him, but attracting the attention of a nearby warg. To cut a long story short (it felt long to Bofur, even though he knew it lasted no more than a few minutes), the dwarf lad Bofur had saved fell to an orc arrow to the neck, just before the warg knocked Bofur to the ground and tore at his face. Bifur had saved his cousin from a painful death and helped him to a healer's tent, though he could not undo the damage that had already been done.

What was even worse was that Bofur dreamed vividly; he dreamed of the Company, that night in Bilbo's house, and then on the road. He dreamed of his family; both family that was long dead, and family that was only in the next tent in this camp. In his dreams, Bofur saw the faces of the Company – faces he believed he'd never see again – along with all they had encountered on the way; he saw the Company preparing for the battle, the look in Thorin's eye's as he held Bilbo over the cliff, the fearlessness of Ori, Kili and Fili. Then there was Lady Dís, and young Gimli, and...and his lovely Hánif. In his dreams, she laughed at him in the woods, luring him on, almost begging him to chase her, until he got to a clearing and found she had vanished. Bofur knew that was his fear talking – fear that she'd no longer want him, now he was no longer whole. He was rich, to be sure, but she'd be much happier with Bombur, or Fili; someone who didn't have the battle written all over their face for the world to see.

Although the mornings never failed to depress Bofur, there were a few times that helped to strengthen him a little. This was because of the elven healer who visited them early every morning; she would come in each morning to check and rebandage the dwarves' wounds before the dwarves themselves were awake enough to give way to their constant complaining. Then she would sit and talk to Bofur for a time, since he was always awake. Bofur would listen contentedly and occasionally respond with a word in Iglishmek, which the elf appeared to know some of, as she talked about anything and everything.

One morning, she talked about the call of the sea; how she longed to go into the West, and had felt this way since the start of the battle. She explained how she had watched her brother fall to a warg, and how she had shot the beast but been unable to save her brother. Bofur's hand automatically strayed to the bandages covering his face, and the elf noticed.

"Was it a warg that injured you?"

_Yes._

"How did you escape?"

_My cousin helped me._

There was a little pause. "Can you not talk, master dwarf?"

_My name is B-O-F-U-R._ Bofur spelled out his name

"Bofur?"

The dwarf nodded.

"I am Shianne, my name means 'song' in our language."

_Both our peoples love to sing._

"What about you?"

_Me?_

"You do not sing, master Bofur."

_I do not care to._

"Since the battle?"

_Aye._

Then Shianne gently took Bofur's hands in her own, and traced some patterns onto the skin, explaining them as she went. "This means 'may the Valar give you peace, even though you cannot sail to the land of harmony'. It is a language I've seen used among humans who have lost their sight and hearing."

Bofur nodded, though did not smile. _May the wind be at your back, and guide your ship swiftly_.

Then the dwarf held up his hand a moment and picked up his flute. He played a line of song, then signed some words. After a few tries, Shianne understood he was teaching her a song, and she sang the words he had signed to the tune he had played.

_Our ship lies in harbour, ready to dock,_

_I wish her safe landing without shake or shock,_

_And when we are sailing to the land of the free,_

_I will always remember your kindness to me._

Bofur nodded approvingly at her singing, which had woken Nori and Balin. Then, he signed: _a song for your journey_.

"Thank you master Bofur," Shianne took his hands in hers again, and traced the pattern on them that meant thank you.

"Isn't that your 'here's a health' tune?"

Bofur jumped at Nori's question, since he had not known anyone else was awake, but he nodded.

"Play the whole song if you want, laddie." Balin offered.

_What about the words?_

"Sign them, and we can take them down and learn them."

Bofur was hesitant, then began to sign. He could hear the frantic search for parchment and quill, both of which Ori kept beside him, then even more frantic scratching of the quill as Balin wrote.

_You can sing it amongst yourselves – I have no desire to hear those words._

There was a pause. "That's alright, laddie – we understand."

Bofur nodded his thanks, then turned to where he was sure Shianne was sitting.

_Can I send a message?_

"A message?" Shianne sounded as if she was frowning. "Of course you can, but why?"

_I need to free someone from an obligation._

"I'm not that fluent in Iglishmek – I don't know that last word..."

Bofur turned to where he thought Balin sat, and signed the phrase again.

"Obligation is what it means, lass – he says he wants to free someone from an agreement or obligation..." Balin trailed off as he began to realise, "Bofur, you can't do that, it shouldn't matter..."

Bofur ignored him and began signing. _I can and I must. Will you take down my message, or not?_

There was a sigh. "Aye, I will. Do you want the others to go?"

Bofur shrugged. _It matters not; they can stay. Leave room for me to write her name at the beginning and my name at the end. Here is the message: I free you from any arrangement or agreement you believe we share, for my injuries in battle mean I am no longer whole._

Balin sighed again, "It is done."

He then passed the quill and parchment to Shianne, who took it to Bofur. Bofur took the quill and the parchment, setting them out as if to write, before he turned to the elf. _Guide my hand_.

Shianne did as she had been asked, helping Bofur to write the names on the parchment and do so legibly, and she couldn't help but catch a glimpse of the name: Hánif. Bofur then gave directions for where it should be delivered to, and Shianne left with the note, to find a bird to carry it.

"You should not have done that, Bofur, it's not..."

But Bofur took up his whistle and began to play, deliberately drowning out the old dwarf's words. He could hear Nori disagreeing with Balin, but he blocked out their conversation: he did not wish to dwell on what he had just done.

...

Two weeks had passed since the battle, and the battlefield had been cleared of dwarf, elf and human corpses for burial, and orc and warg corpses had been burned. All the dwarves with smaller or minor injuries had healed, or gone back to work and simply ignored the injury. The dwarves were hurriedly exploring Erebor, and trying to make some parts safe so that they could winter there.

Now only Balin and Bofur were left in the tent. Gloin had felt well enough to leave after a few days, and Ori had been told he could help with the exploration as long as he kept his wrist strapped to his chest. Nori had left without any healer's permission, so that he could be by Dwalin's side. Balin was recovering well, but his age meant that the injury affected him more than it did Nori, and so he was staying in the tent to make sure he fully recovered before doing anything. It went without saying that Bofur, though he could walk and feed himself, was not much use without his sight, and consequently the dwarf holed himself away in the tent, unwilling to face the outside world.

Two other dwarves and a human had been moved to the tent – they were healing, and almost well again, but not quite, and it made sense to put them together. Bofur did not care to remember their names, though he knew someone had been introduced as some sort of Captain.

After two weeks without leaving the tent, though, Bofur couldn't stand it anymore.

Balin was with Thorin, who had woken the day before though was still in a lot of pain, and Bofur was sitting up on his bedroll, wearing his jacket and his boots, waiting for the sound of someone entering the tent.

He heard the sound of fabric moving, followed by soft footsteps that Bofur would not have heard had he not been relying on his hearing alone. The steps halted at his bedroll, and Bofur wondered if it was Shianne.

_Song? _

Bofur had taken to calling her that, since there were no signs for individual names, and that was the meaning of the elf's name.

"Urm, I don't know what you just said, but I came to visit you," came the voice of the Company burglar.

Bilbo awkwardly took a step forwards, and Bofur could hear his hesitance. He shook his head at the hobbit, before leaning onto his side and managing to push himself up into a standing position.

"Bofur, what are you doing? You're not meant to be getting up!" Bilbo squeaked.

Bofur simply shook his head – he knew there was no point signing – before taking small shuffling steps towards Bilbo, arms held out. Bilbo immediately reached forward and took his arm and, when Bofur nodded towards the tent's entrance, began to guide him through the tent.

When they got outside, Bofur stood still for a few moments, enjoying the feel of the weak sun on his face. Then he began signing something, in the hope that Bilbo would search out someone who could understand Iglishmek, for the toymaker could not bear to speak yet.

"Wait a moment, I can't understand you."

Bilbo's grip vanished from Bofur's arm for a moment, and the dwarf stood still, waiting for his guide to return with a translator.

"Sign it again Bofur – I've brought someone who knows a little bit of that sign language."

_Take me to the Durin princes._

A low voice sounded. "I think he said something about the Durin princes."

Bofur nodded.

He could almost hear the smile on Bilbo's face, "you want me to lead you there?"

Bofur nodded again.

"Of course." Bilbo took Bofur's arm again, then said his thanks to the interpreter.

Bilbo gently led him towards the boys' tent, the journey taking twice as long as it would have done for a sighted person. Balin had told Bofur about Fili and Kili, telling of their wounds and their recovery, which was slow from blood loss.

They stopped, and Bofur's thought that they must have arrived was confirmed when Bilbo spoke.

"Fili? Kili? You have a visitor."

Fili's voice replied, a little muffled. "My brother is sleeping, but you're welcome to come in anyway."

Bilbo led the way into the tent, and Bofur heard a sharp intake of breath that must have been Fili when he saw him. Bofur was helped to sit down, and there he stayed, listening to Bilbo and Fili talk, and then Kili as well when he woke up, but not joining in himself.

Bilbo guided him back to his tent later that evening, and Bofur spent most of the night awake, lying in the dark on his bedroll and whittling a piece of wood into a shape he could only guess at from feeling it. He could only think how he'd never felt so lonely in his whole life.

...

**Oh my goodness I'm so horrible to Bofur in this story! I completely didn't mean to be, but it just sort of happened. Sorry for all the angst and stuff.**

**The little bit of song is from **_**Here's a Health**_** sung by Cara Dillon, but I deliberately didn't include much singing, for obvious reasons.**

**Hánif is a name I made up, while Shianne does mean 'song'.**

**Reviews always welcome, even if it's only to tell me I'm being too mean :)**


	7. Chapter 7

**Yes, what a plot twist in the last chapter! I feel so bad for doing this to Bofur, but it's necessary I'm afraid, and he'll be all the better for it in the end. In light of this, apologies for future plot twists and angst.**

**Credit for Captain Laurence Magpie must go to my friend Basementfullofbandmembers – she created him in an original story she is writing, and I love him so much that he has to be included here. Apologies if I don't get his character just right.**

**Another mention for harrylee94 because she's a very nice person, and a very helpful reviewer.**

...

Even years later, Bofur would still never talk about the weeks and months that followed the great battle. Though he had friends around him almost constantly, he felt as lonely as if he was the only one in the whole camp. He played his whistle, and would talk with anyone who could understand Iglishmek, but he wouldn't use his voice, nor would he smile or laugh; that part of him was broken, and no amount of friendly encouragement could heal it. That great healer, known as time, was the only thing that could help, but Bofur was constantly aware that even that might not be enough.

After the first two weeks, Bofur's injuries healed, leaving only scars, and the bandages were replaced by a strip of cloth in an attempt to help his dignity. Bofur appreciated the thought, but really, it mattered little anymore. Bilbo came every day after the first one, each day leading Bofur to where he wanted to go, and then leading him back to the tent some time later. The numbers in the tent dwindled, until it was just Bofur and a man who the dwarf cared little to know about – the man didn't ask any questions, and that was enough for Bofur.

On the ninth day of being lead about, and having seen all the others, Bofur asked to be led to Thorin, if the king would give him an audience. Bofur was neither surprised nor unsurprised, pleased nor displeased, when Thorin granted him one, and greeted him warmly.

"Welcome my friend," Thorin greeted, as Bofur sat down on a fur nearby, "I see you bear an injury similar to mine."

_I cannot see what you can. _

"True indeed, and I am sorry for it." He turned to Bilbo, "you can leave now, Bilbo – someone will fetch you to guide him back."

Bofur heard the hobbit stand and leave on quiet feet; his loss of vision had sharpened his other senses, and Bilbo no longer appeared as quiet-footed as he previously had. Then, he heard the shift of blankets, and felt Thorin's right hand clasp his right forearm in both encouragement and question. Bofur answered by clasping Thorin's forearm with his own right hand.

"I am sorry, my friend, that you came to such harm," Thorin's voice was low and quiet.

_It cannot be undone now._ Bofur paused. _But I thank you._

"I wager you would like to know my injuries."

_There is no need..._

Thorin interrupted,."We are friends, are we not? Let us share our burdens." Thorin sighed, and took a deep breath, "I have lost my left eye, and my left arm is much damaged; the hand had to be removed, and the damage to the muscle has rendered it all but useless. The healers tell me it may improve in time. I have many other scars to show besides that, and my right eye constantly aches from the strain put upon it."

_I am sorry for that, my King_.

"It warms my heart to be called King by friends I value so highly." Bofur could hear the smile in Thorin's voice as he spoke.

_What of my injuries?_

"What of them?"

Bofur reached his hands behind his head and untied the strip of cloth that covered his eyes, letting it fall into his lap, showing the other dwarf his injuries without any shame.

_What of my injuries?_

Thorin did not hesitate, and only paused to draw breath. "You have scratches, clearly from warg claws, down your face, stopping halfway down your cheeks. You have a ring of teeth marks that circle from the middle of your forehead to your right jaw; your right eye was pierced or damaged by one of those teeth. Your nose was clearly broken, and you have an angry red scar also on your right cheek, reaching from the middle of your nose to your jaw, probably from an orc's poisoned blade.

Thorin had understood; Bofur was grateful for that, if for nothing else. He replaced and retied the cloth, also grateful that Thorin let him do that on his own.

_Thank you_.

"You have a right to know, and you did not deserve what happened."

_None of us get what we deserve_.

Thorin chuckled. "Aye, that's true."

There was a pause, and it was broken by a sigh from Thorin.

"I wish I could compensate you for this, my friend, but I fear it is not within my power."

_I am rewarded with a portion of Erebor's treasure, as well as the knowledge that you sit on its throne. I want for nothing else._

"Nothing else except that which I can't give. I am sorry. Perhaps Gandalf..." he trailed off.

_Aye, perhaps Gandalf, perhaps not Gandalf. If we let it be, I will learn to manage._

"Were you always like this?"

_Like what?_

"So...thoughtful all the time. You always seemed to prefer simple and solid pleasures to deep thought."

_I have little else to do now, except sit and think_.

Bofur talked with Thorin for he knew not how long, though he guessed an hour or so at least, before he heard Bilbo enter the tent, and felt the familiar gentle hand on his arm.

...

Later that evening, Bofur sat on his bedroll, playing a some songs on his whistle; _Bold Jamie_ rolled into _Byker Hill_, which somehow rolled into _the Snows they melt the soonest_, which was about to roll, even more strangely, into _the_ _Ball of Erebor_, when he heard some footsteps. He pulled the whistle from his mouth and stopped to listen to the uneven and strange-sounding footsteps, which were heading towards him. They stopped, and there was a soft _bump _as whoever it was sat down, followed by the clunking of wood. _Crutches_.

There was silence, as the person was clearly taking his measure. Bofur turned towards the person and inclined his head questioningly.

There was the sound of a match being struck and a pipe being lit, prompting Bofur to rummage around in his pack for his own pipe and stuff it with pipeweed. The stranger obligingly lit it for him.

"We've been sharin' this tent for nigh on three weeks, an' we haven't said one word to one another, so I thought I'd introduce myself." The stranger puffed on his pipe, then continued, "I'm Laurence Magpie, a lot o' people call me Captain 'cause of my job, though I'm not a real Captain – I used to manage the boats in Lake-town." Magpie puffed on his pipe again. "You can use that sign-language o' yours, master dwarf, as long as you keep it basic – I know you can't talk."

_Don't want to talk._

"Oh? An' why not?"

Bofur shrugged.

"Fair enough. So what's your name?"

_B-O-F-U-R._

"Master Bofur, you say?"

Bofur nodded.

"You get that injury in the battle?"

Another nod.

"How do you get about then?"

_A guide._

"A guide? I thought as much, master Bofur, but you need to be able to get about on your own. Here"

A long stick, smooth and stripped of its bark, was pressed into his hands.

"A friend o' mine lost his sight in his later days, so he went round with a walkin' stick, tappin' the ground in front o' him from side to side to check for anythin' that might block his path or trip him. He managed for years with that stick, an' now here's a stick for you. Carve it into somethin' if you want – I've seen you carve, and you're good at it, for all you can't see. But use it to feel your way round like I said, and it'll make everythin' a lot easier for you."

Bofur ran his hands over the smooth wood. _Thank you_.

"It's nothing, master Bofur, as long as you'll let me pull my bedroll up this end o' the tent – it gets a bit lonely all the way over there."

Bofur almost smiled, and he nodded for the man to go ahead.

...

Bofur spent most of the coming days in his tent with Captain Magpie, playing his whistle, carving his walking stick, or teaching the human more Iglishmek as they conversed. The two became fast friends, and Bofur's melancholy began to slip away without him noticing it. Except he did notice it sometimes; when night came, and Magpie was snoring not far away, Bofur would often lie on his bedroll, staring at where the ceiling of the tent would be, though all he could see was blackness. In moments like that, with the cloth on the floor beside him, and everyone else just as blind as he in the darkness, the toymaker could almost convince himself that he was well and whole, and that the battle had never happened. _Almost_ convince himself, but not quite.

It was quickly decided that the walking stick should take the shape of a dragon, since they would not be where they were now, if not for that cursed beast. So the top of the stick became the dragon's head, his jaws open in anger as he tilted his head to breathe fire downwards, and his body coiled around the stick. While Bofur carved, Magpie would often play upon a small, crude stringed instrument, and it was not long before it drew Bofur's interest.

Bofur paused his carving, and heard Magpie pause in his playing.

_What instrument is that?_

"What what, Bofur?"

_Instrument._ Bofur pointed to his own whistle beside him, and the stringed instrument Magpie was holding.

"Instrument?"

Bofur nodded.

"I don't really know – someone taught me when I was young, I can't remember who. I only know the basics really, but I got one made as soon as I had the money."

_Can I hold it?_

"O' course; here."

Bofur felt the instrument being pressed into his hands, and he began to use them to explore it. It was box-like, almost a cross between a fiddle and a harp. There were only five strings, and from what Bofur could tell, there was no way of changing the notes like there was on a fiddle.

"There's five strings, so only five notes you can play, but they're good enough for most songs, I've found."

Bofur experimented with different notes and combinations. Before long, he was playing a rough approximation of _Byker Hill_, and almost began humming along without thinking about it.

"You're a natural, but I think that's just 'cause you're good at music. I think I could get you some wood if you want to carve one for yourself, though I don't know about strings – you'd have to ask someone," he paused, "actually, I might know someone."

_Thank you_.

"And you don't have to keep that singin' inside, just 'cause you don't want to talk. I won't tell anyone." Bofur could hear the smile in Magpie's voice when he spoke the last few words, and the dwarf nodded his thanks.

...

By the time the bulk of the dwarves moved into Erebor, most of whom slept on bedrolls in one of the old banqueting halls since there was no other room, Bofur was able to walk by himself. He had finished carving his walking staff, and Bifur had managed to obtain a small amount of wood polish, which Bofur had happily used. Whenever Bofur went for a walk, Magpie would walk alongside him, gradually weaning himself off his crutches and back to the cane he had used before the destruction of Lake-town and the battle. Thus it was that the two walked side by side into the mountain together (for all the humans were also welcomed into Erebor, and a small banqueting hall cleared for them, since they would not survive the snow and the cold of the winter if they had nothing but tents to live in).

Bofur had also carved himself a copy of Magpie's instrument, carving a bird, meant to be a magpie, on this side of his friend's instrument before he began his own. Bifur also somehow managed to obtain some well oiled strings for the instrument, and it was obvious that it pleased him to give his cousin (and anyone else) gifts. Bofur, with Magpie's guidance, had managed to attach a movable piece of the wood to the strings that would change the notes and the type of sound produced. Magpie was also pleased to hear his friend hum a song occasionally, usually when one or both of them were playing their instruments.

As Bofur walked into Erebor, his stick tapping the ground in front of him in a steady rhythm, and a number of other dwarves and Magpie at his side, he could not help but wonder what Erebor held for him now. Could he build a life here, with his infirmity? Could he hope to build a life anywhere?

...

**You know the songs mentioned, other than **_**the Ball of Erebor**_**, which is a renaming of **_**the Ball o' Kerrimuir**_** which is possibly the filthiest bawdy song ever written. Don't worry, I won't put all the lyrics in, but feel free to look it up if you want, just don't say I didn't warn you.**

**Reviews always welcome, if you hadn't gathered that from the notes at the end of the other chapters :p**


	8. Chapter 8

**Sorry for the break – life just got on top of me and everything happened at once. This is just a short little chapter to get things going, and it's not my best ever, but it's good enough and I wanted to post it **

**You may have noticed that I've gone back and redrafted most of the previous chapters, mainly just to sort out typos, but I made Hánif muscled instead of slim. Not particularly important, but something you might need to know to avoid confusion later.**

**Again, thanks to harrylee94 for her support.**

**I had trouble writing this chapter, because I know exactly what will happen in this story in the long run, but I wasn't sure what should happen next, since the caravans from the Blue Mountains won't arrive for at least a year, but I suppose we can skip over time a bit :p**

...

Two months after the battle, Bofur had moved into the apartment his brothers shared with the Brothers Ri, Oin and Gloin, and they had all settled into a rhythm. Every morning Bombur would wake him with breakfast and he would feed himself. If his hair needed rebraiding, Bifur would then rebraid it, before Bofur took his daily walk to visit another member of the Company, or Magpie. He kept the strip of cloth tied over his eyes, and used the walking stick with confidence, appearing to the world to be reconciled to the hand the Valar had dealt him.

Nothing could be further from the truth.

Daily, Bofur would practice carving on small leftover pieces of wood as he diligently tried to improve. He was constantly frustrated, both with his poor carving skills, and his inability to help with the restoration of the mountain. More often than not, Bofur would ruin a carving that had been going reasonably well when his mind became clouded with fear for the future, and anger at his present situation.

Bofur still refused to speak, or sing, to anyone. He knew it pained his brother and cousin (Bombur was pained because of his caring nature, and Bifur was pained partially due to his protectiveness, but mainly because it angered him to see someone with the ability to speak waste it, when he himself lacked the ability) but he just _couldn't_. Everyone who interacted with Bofur quickly became more adept at understanding Iglishmek, and there was soon no difficulty for him in communicating.

Bofur had promised himself that, on the day he opened his eyes and saw something other than blackness, the day he saw colour again, or even vague outlines of people and objects, he would speak then, if he did not decide to sooner.

That day came five months after the battle, and sooner than expected for Bofur; sooner than expected in that he had not expected it to ever come.

He had been sitting on at the end of his bedroll, absentmindedly whittling a stick, and not wearing the cloth over his eyes, when he imagined that he saw something off to his left. He turned, out of instinct, inwardly cursing himself for the small spark of hope that flared inside him.

And yet...there was something, he was sure of it. A dim light, reflected from the fire, or perhaps the fire itself; he wasn't sure, but there was something. He thought his mind was playing tricks on him, tried not to hope, even as the hope swelled inside him.

He had to be sure, so he coughed to get his brother's attention, then began signing.

_Where is the fire_?

"The fire? Why, it's on your left, Bofur. Are you cold? It went out while I was in the other room speaking to Oin, and I've only just relit it. Here, I'll help you move closer."

Bofur shook his head as Bombur's hand closed round his elbow.

_No, wait. _He could almost feel Bombur's frown, but he continued. _You just relit the fire. Was it with a flint? Was there a spark?_

"Yes, I used a flint, so of course there were a few sparks and then it caught. Why?"

Bofur was about to reply in Iglishmek, but stayed his hands and instead cleared his throat in preparation to talk; he had promised himself, after all.

"I..." he broke off, coughing for water, his voice croaky and weak from disuse.

A cup of water was immediately pressed into his hand, and as he drank he could feel his brother's excited tension. When he spoke again, he merely whispered, not wanting to set himself off coughing again.

"I can see the fire."

A moment of silence, then he was being pulled against Bombur into a tight hug, and his brother was shouting.

"Oin?!" Nori?! Get in here! My brother can see! He can see, oh _thank Mahal_, he can see..." Bombur continued rambling, and Bofur reached his hand up to where he guessed his brother's face was, not at all surprised when he felt the wetness on his cheeks.

Two pairs of footsteps drew closer and entered the room.

"What is it?" asked Oin.

"Bofur said he can see the fire!"

"He can see the fire?! Give him here."

Oin pulled Bofur from Bombur's arms and then held him still, and Bofur presumed the healer was examining his eyes.

"Well, there's a simple way to find out: I'm going to turn you round a few times on the spot, so you don't know where you're facing, and you just point to the fire."

Then Bofur was being spun, and he was only just beginning to get dizzy when the spinning stopped.

"Where's the fire, Bofur?"

Bofur looked round him before pointing towards a dim light behind him.

"There?"

"Aüle above, he really can see," breathed Oin, and then he was being pulled to Bombur again and having his back patted, and tears were falling into his hair, and he was finding it difficult to breathe from being held so tightly. But he bore it all, and appreciated how much his brother cared for him.

...

**Yeah I skip time and stuff here, oh well :p**

**This was going to happen a while later, but I decided it should happen now, and a friendly warning that poor Bofur's pain and angst is not yet over.**


	9. Chapter 9

**This was going to be just a cheerful little filler, but Bofur and Hánif told me no, they wanted plot, and so I had to oblige.**

**I can focus on writing more now, because my exams are over, which is good. This doesn't necessarily mean that updates will be more frequent, but it means that my other stories will get some of my attention.**

**Anyway – chapter.**

...

It was nearing eight months since the raven came with the message.

That impossible message that said Erebor had been reclaimed by King Thorin and his heirs, and they could all go home.

The message had been for the Lady Dís, and its contents had been heralded about Ered Luin for the next three hours: 'Erebor is reclaimed. Great Battle is won. All Company survived. Send capable dwarves to rebuild immediately. Caravans follow on later.'

It was short and simple – all they could fit on the scrap of parchment – but it was enough; there was great rejoicing that night, and on the following morning, they prepared to march. Lady Dís summoned all capable miners, builders, stonemasons, as well as many cooks, healers, and warriors. They sent the raven back to Erebor with word of their impending departure, and left in less than a week.

The large group of dwarves, led by the Lady Dís, travelled almost tirelessly, not wanting to waste any time before they returned to Erebor. They skirted the northern border of the Shire, and crossed the Misty Mountains via the small pass that lay south of the Ettenmoors. The route was direct and efficient, meaning that it was less than eight months since their departure that they had finished travelling around Mirkwood, and began to travel south towards the Lonely Mountain.

Hánif travelled with the rest of the stonemasons, many her friends, whilst carrying most of her essential tools and belongings in her own pack. In the pack was also Bofur's letter to her. Hánif still didn't know what to make of the letter; did Bofur not want her anymore? How badly was he injured? Surely they could work round it? She'd read the letter over dozens of times, searching for any hidden or implied meaning that would help her understand, even though she knew there wasn't one.

As the group drew closer to Erebor, they stopped taking breaks except to sleep a few hours every night: they were anxious to reach the mountain as soon as possible, especially those few among them that remembered Erebor as it had stood before Smaug had destroyed it. That was about 180 years ago, meaning there was not many, but some dwarves did remain from that time, and their joy at seeing the mountain again could not be put into words. Hánif was pretty sure that it was one of them that began singing.

The song was an ancient homecoming song in Khuzdul, sung by Durin's folk as they longed for a home. But this time, they really were coming home.

_Far have I wandered, my dearest,_

_Far too far from home,_

_Far have I wandered, beloved,_

_But now I'm coming home._

_I've travelled over the mountains,_

_Far too far from home,_

_I've wandered over the rivers,_

_But now I'm coming home._

_I've travelled deep in the valleys,_

_Far too far from home,_

_I've wandered over marsh and plain,_

_But now I'm coming home._

_I've travelled much in the far west,_

_Far too far from home,_

_I've passed through north and south and east,_

_But now I'm coming home._

_I've weathered all those hard times,_

_Far too far from home,_

_But now we can rejoice once more,_

_For we are coming home._

...

The dwarves were singing the same song when they reached Erebor a few weeks later, and they were greeted at the entrance by dwarves from Thorin Oakenshield's Company and Dain's army, as well as men from Laketown, and even the occasional elf.

All the new arrivals moved to where King Thorin, his heirs, and the rest of the Company stood. Dís greeted first her brother, then her sons, and then the rest of the dwarves from Ered Luin moved forward to do the same.

As Hánif approached the Company, she caught a glimpse of Bofur.

She knew he had been one of the thirteen, and that he would now be hailed as a hero by all of Durin's folk, and she knew that he'd been injured in battle, but she had not expected this. Dwarves honour battle wounds as testament to bravery and battle skill, but Hánif was still repulsed by what she saw; one eye missing, wounds and scars littering his face, and his remaining eye staring at nothing in particular, as if he couldn't see from that eye either.

Hánif gave no outward response, but inside she was in turmoil about what she should do – she thought she'd loved him, but now she wasn't so sure. As a female dwarf she had a responsibility to her kind to marry a strong healthy dwarf, one who could give her children and safety, and Bofur no longer fit into that category. Having to make a split-second decision, Hánif decided not to greet Bofur now – she'd greet him later, when there was no crowd to witness their reunion.

...

**And here we have the beginning of another plot arc to add to the first :) plenty of angst still to come, I promise.**

**For those who wish to know, my geography of Middle Earth is taken from the Hobbit maps of Middle Earth that are being sold in various shops because I have one on my wall. It can also be found online if you look.**

**The homecoming song was written by yours truly, so I hope it's okay :)**

**As previously stated, reviews always welcome **


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